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STEALTHY TERROR 


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STEALTHY TERROR 

BY JOHN FERGUSON 


“ The stealthy terror of the sinuous pard” 

Francis Thompson. 


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NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
M CM XVIII 








••• 


« 


APR 15 1918 ^ 


Press ol 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 
New York, U. S. A. 

©CI.A494597 C/ 


rn^b V 


GORDON HENDERSON 

SECOND LIEUTENANT, ROYAL SCOTS FUSILIERS 

Dear Gordon, 

When on your way back from your short leave you 
came to see me here, and when, after we had talked 
over old friends and vanished times, you had told us 
some of the exploits of your glorious regiment — “at 
Gheluvelt, just south of the Menin Road” — some 
one, in the silence that followed, suggested, awkwardly 
enough, that I should read you the first chapter of this 
tale. You took the suggestion patiently, and I, being 
otherwise willing enough to test this attempt in a sub- 
ject matter new to me, took it, as I now penitently 
recognise, with alacrity. 

Your interest in the tale was more than I had any 
right to expect — certainly it was more than I deserved. 
And so because of your interest in it, the sincerity of 
which I cannot doubt — for with all the gifts of youth 
that are yours in abundance you have yet no natural 
talent for play-acting, and experience has not yet 
taught, and I hope never will teach you to simulate 
what you do not feel — because of this, then, I place 
your name on this book. 

J. A. FERGUSON. 


Folkestone. 

















J 













STEALTHY TERROR 











STEALTHY TERROR 


CHAPTER I 

I F you leave the Friedrichstrasse at the first 
street beyond the Cafe Bauer, which is the 
Danzigerstrasse, and then, near the far end, 
take the third to the right you come on the Cafe 
Rosenkrantz. It was a queer place, queer not 
so much, perhaps, in itself as in the uncommon 
people one met there. It had an atmosphere. 
The casual customer who chanced to enter would 
not find that the saffron-faced waiter, who would 
ultimately approach him and take his order, while 
manipulating a toothpick, differed from his many 
thousand confreres in Berlin; and yet that 
stranger would be singularly insensible if he did 
not gather the impression that the cafe had a 
character of its own, a queer subtle flavour, an 
individuality that would infallibly make him 
think of himself as a stranger there, as if his en- 
trance had in it something of the nature of an 
intrusion. 

I remember the strength of that impression 
9 


IO 


STEALTHY TERROR 


when I first chanced on the place. It interested 
me, and I was a fairly frequent visitor afterwards; 
but I cannot say I ever really fathomed the cafe 
or its habitues. Obviously some of us were 
merely in the place while others were of it. 
There was a queer undercurrent to its surface 
which one might feel but never see. And fre- 
quently, sitting in my corner, I have watched 
such a chance visitor enter, settle down with all 
the outward manifestations of a man who pro- 
posed a pleasant evening for himself, and then I 
have seen the successive symptoms appear, a men- 
tal perturbation pass into a physical discomfort 
that grew, in some cases, so strong that the man 
could not sit still, and which often resulted in an 
abrupt departure. 

Sometimes I felt tempted to follow one of these 
men and beg him to tell me what his sensations 
exactly were. But I never did. I knew that I 
would be put off with some such excuse as that 
they found the seats uncomfortable, or the beer 
indifferent. 

But here it dawns on me that I am beginning 
this strange tale in rather clumsy fashion. Pos- 
sibly a closer acquaintance with literary art, if I 
had it, would tell me that instead of explaining 
the cafe I ought first to explain myself. If this, 
indeed, be the right craftsmanship I can only say 
I have a confident hope that such a mistake here, 
as well doubtless as many others to come, will 
be overlooked by the reader, in consideration of 


STEALTHY TERROR 


ii 


the queer story I have to tell. In any case I 
think I can set matters straight in a few w’ords. 

After I had graduated in medicine at Aber- 
deen I had, on the advice of Professor Munro, 
gone to Paris for a year’s study at the famous 
Saltpetriere with a view to specialising in mental 
disease. Actually I spent two years at that great 
institution, and six months before the date on 
which this narrative opens had gone on to Berlin. 
Not that I expected the medical schools there to 
teach me what the Saltpetriere could not — that 
would be indeed an absurdity — but rather to ap- 
ply what I had learned of the connection of men- 
tal science and therapeutics to patients so differ- 
ent in temperament as is the stolid Teuton from 
the volatile Latin. 

Well, I had been going with more or less 
regularity for two months, or more, to the Cafe 
Rosenkrantz, and had got to know by sight most 
of its frequenters, and they to know me, when, 
quite suddenly, one night, I slipped into the whirl- 
pool of its dark waters. It is rather odd to 
look back on it now and realise that on that 
July evening I was, little as I thought so then, 
entering its painted marble portals for the last 
time. 

It was on the stroke of ten, a little later than 
usual, when I settled down in my accustomed 
corner with my pipe and lager, and drew from 
my pocket a little old book of Westphalian folk- 
songs I had that day picked up at the second- 


12 STEALTHY TERROR 

hand bookshop that stands at the corner of the 
Wundtstrasse, and which I had reserved unex- 
amined for this quiet hour. It was a fascinat- 
ing book, adorned with naif woodcuts of do- 
mestic and rural life, and, though printed in 
Gothic characters which made it to me rather 
troublesome reading, the old-world love of home 
and children and simple things, the unsophisti- 
cated ways, the sorrows of hopeless lovers, of 
which the artless verses told, had for me a charm 
independent of their psychological interest as 
records of an old Germany that had passed for 
ever away. 

Thus engaged, it was not for some time that 
it dawned on me that there was something un- 
toward afoot in the cafe. Vaguely I had been 
aware that there was a good deal of coming and 
going. The swing door that separated the 
outer chamber in which I was from the larger 
inner hall was always on the move. I sat and kept 
a quiet eye on things for a while. Now no one 
was entering. Evidently the audience was com- 
plete. Putting away my little volume and finish- 
ing off my beer, I crossed the floor, with, I 
hope, a not exaggerated air of nonchalance, and 
passed through the green baize swing doors into 
the inner room. Heaven knows what I expected 
to find there! What I did find was a gathering 
of some twenty men, seated in twos and threes 
round the little tables. Some of them were 
known to me by sight; with a few I had even ex- 


STEALTHY TERROR 


13 


changed a word or two from time to time, for I 
fancy that at first they were somewhat curious 
about me. The talking ceased abruptly on my 
entry and all their faces turned and looked at me 
in the silence. It sent a queer thrill of eeriness 
through me, and I stopped irresolutely, as the 
door swung back behind me. 

The silence lasted no more than an instant. 
It was broken by a high-pitched voice of femi- 
nine quality, and immediately the talk of the 
room was again in full swing. I looked to see 
who it was that had been so alert and ready, and 
found my man in one with whose face I was 
familiar, but whom I had missed from the place 
for the last few weeks. He was of lithe, slender 
build, rather Jewish in features, dark, with bril- 
liant eyes and black-pointed beard, which en- 
hanced the whiteness of his teeth when he showed 
them in a smile. And as he was a most good- 
humoured fellow, with a smile for every one, he 
often showed his teeth. It seemed to me he 
liked doing it — a touch of vanity perhaps. They 
were good teeth. Later on he lost some of 
them. 

Settling myself in a corner, I took up a news- 
paper, feeling that I was nearer than I ever had 
been to the cafe’s hidden things. The atmos- 
phere was somehow vibrant. That sudden turn- 
ing of the heads, and the hush and stillness when 
I entered, were sufficient indication. They had 
expected some one very different; and they had 


14 


STEALTHY TERROR 


all expected him. They were all waiting for 
him; they all knew who it was for whom they 
waited. I did not; but I could wait also and 
see. As time passed, however, I became sensitive 
to the fact that my presence was a source of ex- 
treme discomfort to them. They were fidgety. 
Heads went together across the little round mar- 
ble-topped tables. There was a good deal of 
whispering beneath the ordinary babel of com- 
mingling voices that is the note of any normal 
cafe. Over the edge of my paper I caught nu- 
merous glances directed my way, which I could 
not attribute to anything unusual or attractive in 
my personal appearance. And those glances 
from the pale blues and steely greys of Prussian 
eyes were not kind. 

However, I sat tight. Every item in the 
newspaper was not only read but digested. I 
fancy I could give a good summary of that 
paper’s contents even now, from the telegraphic 
news as to the political clubs in Belgrade to the 
editorial comments on a speech recently made, at 
an English by-election, on armaments, wherein 
the candidate called for a reversal of the Dread- 
nought programme initiated by Herr Balfour. To 
build more ships was, he alleged, an insult to 
Germany, and imperilled the cordial relations 
hitherto existing between the two countries. In 
spite of editorial approval of this statement I 
disagreed, for all my experience in Germany 
seemed to show that the only cordial relations 


STEALTHY TERROR 


15 

were those of cordial dislike, which could hardly 
be “imperilled” by more shipbuilding; and, I 
suspected, the foundation of Germany’s grudge 
against us was not that we built ships but that we 
existed — an offence for which there seemed to be 
no amicable remedy. 

The thought brought a smile. Then the big 
green baize doors opened quietly and some one 
stepped into the room. All faces turned simul- 
taneously and all talk ceased, as if by some 
miracle every speaker had come to the end of his 
sentence at the same moment. In the unnatural 
stillness I heard the sharp indrawn breath of the 
new-comer, and saw his gaze pass from face to 
face. They might have expected him; he, it was 
clear, had not expected them. I saw him turn 
white as he looked, his eyes grew sharp, the pu- 
pils contracted to mere pin points. 

“Dewinski!” he said. 

“Yais,” a voice answered. 

There was a world of complacent amusement, 
and God knows what else, in that single uttered 
syllable. Looking for the speaker I found him 
to be the little Jew. His red mouth was wreathed 
in smiles, his teeth gleaming. 

Not another word was said. The man at the 
door stood rigid for a full minute. Then he 
came forward, sat down at the table next to mine, 
beside the man he had called Dewinski, and the 
queer scene ended. 

Relighting my pipe, I took up the newspaper 


1 6 


STEALTHY TERROR 


again and ruminated awhile — ruminated is a good 
word that fits the situation as I now see it — as to 
why the Jew had answered to his name in Eng- 
lish, or at least what he took to be English. It 
was fated, however, that I was not to know the 
reason till a soldier told it me, on the road be- 
tween Dover and Folkestone, by the Royal Oak 
Inn, as I remember, at the top of the hill. 

Meanwhile, my neighbours at the next table 
were talking among themselves, but too quietly 
and guardedly for my comprehension. Besides 
Dewinski and the new-comer there were two oth- 
ers, an obese creature whose back, like the gable 
of a house, was all I could see of him, and, on 
his right, a man of perhaps forty years with a 
pitted face, adorned with the national moustache, 
the two ends of which pointed into the hardest 
pair of eyes that ever tried to stare me down. 
Dewinski was on the fat man’s left, and between 
these two the face of the man they had waited 
for fronted me. He was a young, clean-shaven 
fellow, but clad in ill-fitting sloppy clothes. 

It was to this group that I gave a good deal 
of unostentatious attention, even when my glance 
wandered to the others beyond. By and by it 
dawned on me that the man with the pale face 
was paying me the same compliment, in much the 
same manner. Once or twice for an instant our 
eyes met, and at first I was quick to avert my 
glance, not wishing to appear as a watcher. After 
a little of this cross play, however, it seemed to 


STEALTHY TERROR 


1.7 


me that he was trying to hold my look, trying 
almost to say something to me : there was a sort 
of question in his eyes. 

Over the green baize double door there was a 
clock. It was one of those common German 
clocks in shape like a coffin, a child’s coffin, with 
the white face at the top, and a glass front that 
showed the pendulum swinging like a grotesque 
pair of human legs. After a while this clock 
began to take a share in the attention received 
from the company. It was clear that an hour 
was approaching at which they desired to be rid 
of me. I wondered why one of them did not 
come and tap me on the shoulder and point to the 
door. Certainly as I yawned over that news- 
paper I expected some such hint, sooner or later. 
There was an angry hum in the room that re- 
minded me of the last time I had disturbed a 
wasps’ nest by plugging up the hole, and laying 
my ear to the ground to listen. At last a man 
on the far side got up, and, stepping on to the 
little dais, sat down at the piano. He had, how- 
ever, got no further with his playing than the pre- 
liminary roulade of rippling notes when Dewin- 
ski interrupted: 

“Frederick, my friend, no music I pray you.” 
They all looked at Dewinski, wondering. “There 
is this Englishman among us,” he explained. 

I wondered what was coming and, I dare say, 
showed it. Voices rose in protest. Who cared 
for the Englishman? He had been too long 


i8 


STEALTHY TERROR 


there; and other things were said that were un- 
distinguishable in the guttural babel. 

“He does not like music,” continued the lit- 
tle Jew suavely. “No Englishman likes mu- 
sic.” 

There was quietness now. I felt, and they, I 
suspect, knew that something venomous was com- 
ing. 

“The good gentleman will depart, deprive us 
of his company, if that pig Frederick will con- 
tinue.” 

One or two began to laugh, but most showed 
mere bewilderment. Dewinski banged a fist on 
the table. 

“You do not believe me! Lieber Gott, I 
know! The British when they have to meet any 
business that is very unpleasant, from which 
there is no escape at all, they call it ‘facing the 
music 5 !” 

And while the room rocked with laughter at 
this sally, and they all had something to jabber to 
each other about it, I was looking at the man who 
looked at me, the man who did not join in the 
merriment. I am not quite sure as to the power 
man has for sweeping from his mind memories 
that are unwelcome. I believe that impressions, 
even deeply lodged in the brain’s convolutions, can 
be obliterated much more completely than is gen- 
erally supposed. Of course the brain itself re- 
tains every impression that has ever been made 
on its texture; and in the strictest sense no man 


STEALTHY TERROR 


i9 


ever forgets anything. But his power of recall- 
ing is faulty; and this power may be left unexer- 
cised in certain cases, if a man so choose. We 
need not put out a finger to open that door! 
True, but every life has some memory that can 
open the door for itself; and, at some time or 
other, in the silence of a wakeful night, perhaps, 
the door of that memory swings on noiseless 
hinges, and, whether we will it or no, we are face 
to face with some spectre of the far-off years. 

It is his eyes that haunt me! Not the sharp, 
suspicious aspect they had when he stood with his 
back to the door, the pupils small, full of fear, 
but as they were when we looked at each other so 
often, when the pupils were enlarged and re- 
laxed, when he had no fear, but only despair. 

There is only one other ghost that has an 
equal power of presenting himself whether I will 
it or not — an old collie dog, who looks up at me 
and wags his tail while he shakes the water from 
his dripping body. It is curious he should 
choose me, for I had no hand in his death, and 
indeed never saw him till the time they drowned 
him. Still, even so, that rather strengthens my 
contention that there are memories over which 
we have no control. The memory of that 
dog came back to me then, as I sat in the 
Cafe Rosenkrantz. I had been wandering 
in the woods, a small boy of ten or so, and, com- 
ing on the deep pool they call Lady Drummond’s 
bath, saw on the brink two or three men with 


20 


STEALTHY TERROR 


a dog. One man, the dog’s master, was tying 
a heavy stone to the collie’s neck, for he had 
become too old to be worth his keep. To me 
it seemed that the dog knew. To the bystand- 
ers he wagged his tail while the preparations 
went on, as if they had attended out of respect, 
and not for the sport of it; and when his master 
knelt down the better to fasten the stone to a rope 
— the collar being removed as a thing of some 
value — he licked the man’s face. “Silly brute,” 
the man mumbled, “he little kens what’s what.” 
But I think he did know. I think he was merely 
pretending to them he did not; for the look in 
his eyes belied the wagging tail, the look that was 
so like that of the man over there. For now I 
knew I stood on the brink of tragedy, and that 
here, once again, was one with a rope and a stone 
round his neck, and whose last moments were 
fast running out. 

“Do you see the clock?” 

The voice that thus burst in among my 
thoughts was so rasping and formidable that it 
made me glance at the clock before I looked at 
the speaker. 

It was the monstrously fat man whose back 
had been before me all the evening. Now he 
was standing over the young fellow, a huge hand 
laid on his shoulder. No one gave the slightest 
heed to me, and I watched with tense interest, 
wondering what significance attached to the words, 
and what would happen next. But nothing more 


STEALTHY TERROR 


21 


was said. No one got up except Dewinski, and 
the man with the pitted face. Then the young 
man rose, and I saw that they were about to 
leave. He did not look towards me again. I 
got up myself and made my way to the door with 
an affectation of leisureliness. But I am sure it 
was lost on them. No one regarded me. 

Outside I lingered on the steps to light my 
cigarette. There had been some rain, leaving 
the pavements wet so that the reflected lights of 
the street lamps lay on the road like a row of 
fallen stars. After the hot, spent atmosphere 
of the cafe the night air came fresh and bracing 
to the lungs. There seemed to be very few peo- 
ple abroad, probably the recent rain had helped 
to empty the streets somewhat sooner than usual, 
and as I stood the sound of merry bells began to 
fill the air. The clocks of the great city were 
striking, some near at hand loud and reverberant, 
others thin and silvery, coming from afar over 
the roofs in the still night. 

They had not ended before I heard the shuffle 
of feet behind me, and Dewinski with the young 
man in the ill-fitting clothes and two others 
stepped on to the street. It amazed me that 
there were only four. Somehow I had expected 
the whole rabble. They evidently did not desire 
to draw attention, and when that obvious infer- 
ence from their numbers had been made the 
thought of playing an impudent and bold part 
came to me suddenly. It was impossible to leave 


22 


STEALTHY TERROR 


unanswered that dumb call for help I So, with- 
out any clear plan of action, I slipped along the 
street after them. The only thing I could think 
of was to join the group with some casual re- 
mark, such as, “Ah, I see you are going my way. 
A pleasant evening, isn’t it? Though the wind 
is rising, certainly.” 

But though I had exchanged greetings in the 
past with Dewinski I felt that it would be rather 
forcing the note, so to speak, to cut in like that. 
And I had to slacken my pace, as I came up be- 
hind them, so that I might get a hold of some- 
thing a little more plausible. This seemed a des- 
perately hard thing to do. They were only a 
dozen paces ahead of me now, the fat monster 
in front with his arm linked affectionately in the 
victim’s, Dewinski and the other close on his 
heels. I was fearful that one of them might look 
behind and see me; but this did not happen. No 
doubt the two behind were fully engaged in keep- 
ing an eye on their prisoner; and from this I 
judged he must be a slippery customer. 

In this fashion we had traversed the length 
of several streets. I have already remarked on 
the quietness of that night. What little traffic 
there was abroad was almost all vehicular, and 
the rapid footsteps of the rare pedestrian could 
be heard a long way off, as he hurried home- 
wards. I took care that my own should not be 
heard. Indeed I was slipping round the comer 
of a square, the name of which was unknown to 


STEALTHY TERROR 


23 


me, when I ran straight into them, as they stood 
up against the railing, under the overhanging 
trees. It was a horrible moment, and I must 
have looked a fool, coming round with every 
manifestation of stealthy caution. They just 
stood there looking at me. It was enough! I 
felt hot all over with shame. There was no 
chance to carry it off, one way or another, my 
tiptoe pursuit was too plain evidence of my spy- 
ing purpose. 

Dewinski, who had been smiling, began to 
whistle some tune, and I could see the branches 
of the shrubbery behind him tapping on the iron 
railings, as if beating time to his flute-like notes. 
Then I began to laugh. His companion with a 
snarl of rage stepped towards me lifting his stick. 
But Dewinski pushing him back stepped in front 
of me, lifting his forefinger. 

“Sir,” he said, “there haf been much spoken 
in English newspapers of German spies in Eng- 
land. And I haf never seen von leedle bit in ze 
German about English spies in Germany. So! 
and yet all ze evening you haf spied on us, four 
gentlemen vat go home. You haf all the sus- 
picion that come from stupidity. You haf dis- 
cover a mare’s nest, whatever zat is, and you, 
mein Herr, are ze cuckoo in ze nest. Well, if 
you do not want to fall into deep waters, dat is 
also hot water, as you say, go home and” — here 
he smiled genially — “schleep well in your 
beds.” 


24 


STEALTHY TERROR 


He took his companion’s arm and passed on 
to where the others were waiting under a lamp. 
His words of protest left me shaken for the mo- 
ment. Had I indeed been making an ass of my- 
self? I stood rooted to the spot in indecision, 
looking after them doubtfully, watching their 
backs as they passed under the light of the lamp 
at the corner. And I think I would have turned 
away homewards, then and there, had it not been 
for a little thing, a mere pin-prick, in the way of 
an insult, which, it seemed, the impish Jew could 
not deny himself. He was behind the others. 
Just beyond the lamp, he turned towards me, 
stood for a moment with the light streaming from 
above in a theatrical effect that no doubt was 
much to his taste, and with a graceful sweep of 
his arm blew me a kiss I Then the darkness en- 
veloped him, and I could hear their footsteps 
gradually die away. 

It is not really strange that one should arrive 
at convictions more often by seeing something 
done than by hearing something said. That act 
of Dewinski’s, the simian-like mockery and malice 
of it, with his teeth showing, and his half-shut 
eyes, scattered my innate Scotch dubiety and 
hesitation for interfering in other people’s affairs. 
It put my back up and set me aflame. But, above 
all, it gave me the conviction that they were up 
to some devilry with the man they had in their 
clutches. Go home and sleep well? There was 
one man they intended should sleep well that 


STEALTHY TERROR 


25 


night; but not in his bed! It was at this point 
that thought died in me, and I became a living 
mechanism for action. 

When I had removed my boots and placed 
them carefully inside the garden railings — for 
they were a good pair, and I had no mind to 
lose them — I crossed to the other side of the 
road down which the gang had gone and ran like 
the wind after them. Along almost the entire 
length I went like a flying shadow. Then, when 
it was clear I must have overshot the party, I 
crossed the street and doubled back on the other 
side, listening for any sounds at the top of all the 
side streets. The quarter of the city in which I 
found myself was strange to me, long parallel 
lines of deserted streets, houses that presented no 
distinctive features, and none that gave any out- 
ward indication of interior life. The clouds 
overhead had broken up into smaller fragments 
as the night wore on, and a faint moonlight began 
to show fitfully through the edges. 

The street in which I now stopped to listen 
ran north and south, with its east side in shadow. 
I was about to pass on to the next when a faint, 
far away sound struck my ear, and, as chances 
were few now, I seized on that chance and sped 
down the shadowed side of the street. Very 
soon I was close enough to hear voices in alterca- 
tion, and to see a group of men on the opposite 
side, confronted by a policeman. He was a big 
fellow, and I could see the light glint on the metal 


2 6 


STEALTHY TERROR 


ornaments on his helmet. Cautiously I crept 
along, flattening myself against the wall, and in 
a doorway opposite drew up to await a favour- 
able chance for intervention. At first it looked 
afc if the officer was about to march the whole 
party off to the police station. They had in 
some way offended him — not a very difficult mat- 
ter in Berlin — and his big voice boomed at the 
Jew’s low expostulations. I imagine, from what 
afterwards happened, that it was something their 
prisoner had said or done, and I judged that 
things must be getting rather desperate from his 
point of view. 

Finally, however, Dewinski’s suave manners 
seemed to prevail. The policeman’s voice dropped 
into a low rumble that showed me the crisis was 
over; his helmet nodded final admonitions, and 
he was passing on his way when there was a sud- 
den scuffle in the group — some one burst from 
them, and struck the policeman a resounding 
smack on the face. It must have been done with 
the open palm, from the noise it made; but, ac- 
cording to British ideas on the subject, it was 
no sort of crack to give a policeman, combining, 
as it did, the maximum of insult with the mini- 
mum of damage. When I saw it was the little 
man, their prisoner, who had struck the blow I 
thought things were getting even more queer 
than ever. They were on him like a flash, drag- 
ging him back. The big policeman, after star- 
ing like an astonished bull in stupid surprise, gave 


STEALTHY TERROR 


27 

a roar of anger and dashed for his man, tearing 
him like a rag from their grasp. 

When Dewinski and the others came round 
in front, and the policeman drew his sword and 
waved them off threateningly, I began to see day- 
light : the little chap had intended his blow to in- 
sult but not to injure! He wanted to get him- 
self arrested; therefore he had less to fear from 
the police, at all events that night, than from 
the others. At first it looked as if his ruse 
would be crowned with success. The officer 
snapped a handcuff on his prisoner, and set off 
for the station as soon as the others had fallen 
back from his sword’s point. And, since the 
prisoner gave no trouble, the pace was quite brisk. 
The others followed, Dewinski icursing softly, 
and the fat man soon showing symptoms that the 
pace was too hot for him. 

We were in another street now, and from be- 
hind I could see that the trio were much alarmed 
at this unexpected turn the affair had taken. 
They pulled up and their heads went together in 
consultation. Then the third man, the fellow 
with the pitted face, detached himself and went 
speeding along the street on the right. The Jew 
and the fat man hurried along again after their 
quarry, and I made sure as I quickened my own 
pace that something nasty was brewing. It was 
wonderful how that mountain of flesh moved so 
swiftly and noiselessly. There was something 
weirdly ominous in it, more ominous even than 


28 


STEALTHY TERROR 


the stealthy cat-like progress of the Jew, who ran 
with little steps by his side. I am sure the other 
two heard nothing as they came up behind. 
They were in the middle of the road, in the full 
moonlight, for now the moon had emerged from 
the welter of clouds, and the street lay a long 
sharply cut contrast of light and shadow. 

Dewinski was on the policeman’s back with 
the agility of a panther, arms locked round the 
neck, and his knee driving into the small of the 
man’s back. He came down like a stricken ox 
under the butcher’s pole-axe, and the small sword 
spun out of his grasp and fell clanging on the 
hard road. The moment he was down the fat 
man, with a run and a jump, landed on the man’s 
prostrate body. There was no cry, not even a 
groan. 

Save for the clatter of the sword, it was all 
as noiseless as if the man had been stricken down 
by a grotesque bulky shadow, suddenly become 
ponderable. 

The two scoundrels were busily engaged rifling 
the person of their whilom prisoner, who had 
fallen with his captor, and, it appeared, had 
shared in his injury. My rush was noiseless, and 
I imagine it was my preceding shadow, falling 
on the white upturned face of their victim, that 
first gave them warning. The Jew was on his 
feet in a flash, in time to recognise me, but not 
in time to ward off the drive from my right that 
went home on his jaw. He was, as I have said, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


29 


a diminutive, slightly built creature, with no 
weight of bone in him. Under the blow he spun 
over and over, and then lay still. The fat man 
was much less active in getting to his feet. If 
he had confined himself to the drawing of his re- 
volver he might have got me. But he was rather 
badly startled, and, as he drew, was attempting 
also to get on his feet. This gave me time. But 
he was almost up. Fair on the tip of his chin 
I caught him, a well-planted effort though I say 
it myself, and as he collapsed like a huge emp- 
tied sack his shot rang out on the still night, as 
if it had been a tyre punctured. I don’t know 
where it went, into the sky probably as his arms 
flew up. 

Kneeling beside the stranger who had so 
curiously drawn me into his affairs, I strove to 
bring him round, for I did not think he had 
sustained any injury beyond the sudden and vio- 
lent fall. His eyes opened, and he looked up 
at me. After a dazed sort of scrutiny I saw 
recognition creep into them, and he smiled. I 
did what I could for him; but it was clear that 
somehow he was more seriously injured than I 
had anticipated, for he was incapable of move- 
ment. By himself he would not have made 
much of a burden to carry into safety, but, se- 
curely handcuffed as he was to the fallen police- 
man, that was out of the question. Then, when 
I saw something bright coloured at the corner 
of the mouth I laid his breast bare, and soon 


30 STEALTHY TERROR 

discovered where the fat man’s bullet had found 
lodgment. 

The bullet had penetrated his right side, in its 
course passing through a small square of Amer- 
ican cloth that was fastened almost under the 
arm-pit. Carefully I removed this. I felt him 
struggle, as if to speak, when I threw the thing 
aside. He was in great distress, endeavour- 
ing to raise himself, and pointing to the piece 
of black leather cloth lying on the road. I 
picked it up and then saw that it was a thin, flat 
packet that probably contained something he val- 
ued. There was a hole through it. Rather at 
a loss I tried to satisfy him by putting it in his 
breast pocket; but this did not seem to content 
him either. I let him see me put it into my own 
pocket, and looked him full in the eyes to indi- 
cate that I took charge of it for him. He smiled 
and tried to speak. I bent my head close to his 
mouth. 

“Over,” he said. 

Having little doubt that it was, indeed, all 
“over” with him, I could only nod my confirma- 
tion. 

With a little sigh, as from extreme exhaustion, 
he closed his eyes, and I bent down once more 
to see if he yet breathed. While I listened so, 
almost on the surface of the street, there came 
to my ear the far away sound of feet running 
fast. He must have heard that sound, too, I 
think, for he pushed at me gently. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


3i 

“Over,” he whispered. “Over, over.” It 
was curious how he insisted on that. 

Without doubt it was the man with the pitted 
face bringing the reinforcements for which he 
had been sent. Slipping over to the mouth of an 
alley on the dark side of the street, I waited for 
their coming. How grotesquely that scattered 
group lay in the white moonlight: the dead po- 
liceman, his helmet, some distance from him, on 
its side; the gigantic fat man with his head 
towards me and his feet lying over the prostrate 
officer; Dewinski beyond them, like a doll on its 
back, the legs oddly and stiffly outspread. 

The running men gave a shout when they saw 
the group, which was visible from a good dis- 
tance on such a night, and the patter of feet 
quickened. 

Soon I saw them, and knew that the sooner 
I was gone the better. The man who led was 
the fellow I had seen before. He rapped out 
an oath of satisfaction as he came up and stopped 
by the wounded man, the man who had shown 
the white face in the Cafe Rosenkrantz, but 
who had shown nothing of the white feather. 

I turned into the dark alley and ran for my 
life. 


CHAPTER II 

T HE next morning I decided to absent my- 
self from Professor Vorberg’s lecture 
on the Origin of Racial Temperaments. 
My feet had suffered severely on the cobbles of 
side streets, and I imagined that a quiet morning 
in slippers would be a not unpleasant change. 
Besides, I was in no proper mood to listen with 
patience to the Professor’s exhaustive theories on 
his pet subject: I had too much to think about 
in connection with the wild events of the pre- 
ceding night, and had not as yet arrived at any 
theory which would account for them. After 
breakfast, however, I began to collect the neces- 
sary materials. In the Berliner Tageblatt a 
smudgy stop press item for which I was seeking 
caught my eye: 

“Mysterious Affair in the Keppelstrasse. 

“A mysterious affair is reported from the 
Keppelstrasse, the full details of which are not 
yet available for publication. At an early hour 
this morning Carl Brunner, a baker on his way 
32 


STEALTHY TERROR 


33 


to work, came upon the bodies of a police officer 
and a young man lying together in the street. It 
is supposed that the officer had arrested the man 
and was engaged in conveying his charge to the 
station when he was set upon and shot by the 
prisoner’s confederates. 

“The scene of the attack was well chosen, for 
the Keppelstrasse is in a quarter with few in- 
habitants, being chiefly a street of warehouses. 

“It is not yet known how the prisoner, whose 
body when discovered was still shackled to the 
officer, met his death, but it is expected that the 
full details will be furnished in the course of the 
day.” 

I relit my pipe. That would be what the or- 
dinary newspaper man would make of the affair. 
No need to scoff at him. The chances were a 
hundred to one that it was an attempt at a res- 
cue. Yet I wondered what the authorities would 
make of it when the doctors told them that the 
bullet was not in the officer but in his prisoner. 
The Jew and his companion, the fat man, had 
been got away, with the assistance I had seen ar- 
riving, and which, it pleased me to think, they 
would need. 

But what lay behind it all? Like every 
other reader of newspapers I knew, of course, 
that crime had come to share in the modern pas- 
sion for organisation and amalgamation. Bur- 
glary as a one man business was, like grocery as 


34 


STEALTHY TERROR 


a one man business, obsolete. Indeed, of the 
two, crime alone had attained to ramifications 
that were international. Undoubtedly some 
form of crime lay behind the events of last night 
— they all bore the atmosphere of it — but a 
merely natural and human curiosity demanded to 
know what the specific crime in this case was. 
Speculation is often a fascinating mental exer- 
cise, but when carried on without data is usually 
barren in concrete results. 

It is, perhaps, strange that among the various 
theories I formulated to account for the few facts 
in my possession the view that this crime might 
have political motives behind it did not then en- 
ter my mind. The one great motive for mur- 
der that at once enters the British mind is rob- 
bery. That is because of the intense veneration 
the British mind has for property; as a race we 
are indisposed to admit that there is any other 
adequate motive ; it must be the desire to acquire 
property of some kind. I admit that De Quincey, 
with his famous Murder as a Fine Art essay, may 
be quoted against me. But that essay I am con- 
vinced was written by the Opium Eater, and not 
by the Englishman, in De Quincey. It is not, 
therefore, really strange that I did not suspect 
this crime to have a political origin. In England 
politics have been for so long a mere game that 
we cannot conceive of a rational mind that would 
risk its supporting neck on behalf of any poli- 
tician. Indeed, that is putting the situation in 


STEALTHY TERROR 


35 


an exaggerated form, for, outside Ireland, the 
exceptional country here as everywhere, we take 
our games much more seriously than our poli- 
tics. 

Whatever the impelling cause, it was a very 
ugly business, and I was well out of it with only 
the loss of a pair of boots that were practically 
new. It is true I was not yet quite out of the 
affair. There was that American cloth packet 
with which the dead man had entrusted me. If 
he was dead — and on that I must satisfy myself 
* — the right thing would be to hand it over to the 
police. Unopened? That was the point towards 
which my thoughts converged. The man to 
whom it belonged might be a criminal, a traitor; 
and the men responsible for his death might be 
but the instruments of that vengeance which 
Bacon calls a rude kind of justice. Even so, the 
man had trusted me. I had liked him too. That 
attack of his on the policeman, in its execution 
so like a schoolgirl, in its spirit gallant enough 
for a paladin, a thing for both laughter and tears, 
it was that that fixed my sympathies. 

On the whole I decided that I could open and 
examine the contents. In a way I was the man’s 
trustee. My future course of action must be de- 
cided by what it contained. 

I was looking for my scissors to slit the silk 
threads with which the packet was sewn, when 
the door opened gently and the voice of Trud- 
chen, the maid, startled me: 


36 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Herr Wohlenhaupt.” 

Looking round hastily I saw advancing a short 
man, spare of figure, whose blunt heavy fea- 
tures and large jowl made the head seem dispro- 
portionate to the body. 

Without suggesting actual deformity, Herr 
Wohlenhaupt seemed to have been furnished with 
the head of a much bigger man. Though one 
might have to wait to see what effect such an 
arrangement had on his temper, there was no 
delay in recognising the effect it had on his cir- 
culation, his unhealthy pallor suggesting that the 
small heart, under the neat frock coat, could not 
supply colour to that vast expanse of counte- 
nance. 

He bowed to me with some urbanity of man- 
ner, holding his hat to his small chest. 

“Herr Abercromby?” he queried pleasantly. 

And on my assenting he took possession of a 
chair, with another bow, as if to tell me that I, 
too, might be seated. 

“A very fine morning, sir,” he remarked, 
crossing his legs. 

“Very pleasant,” I answered. 

“You have a nice outlook on the square; the 
trees, so fresh, and the flower beds make beau- 
tiful circles of colour.” 

At that I thought I could place him: a book 
canvasser! I had suffered thus before; they 
were irritating when they fondly imagined they 
were ingratiating. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


37 


“Sir,” I answered, “it is an unusually early 
hour for callers, and as I do not suppose you 
merely called to chat on flowers and foliage I 
should be glad to know the purpose of your visit.” 

He scrutinised me in silence for a moment and 
then nodded. 

“Ach, I understand,” he said. “We Germans 
are too full of words; it is a national weakness. 
I myself have often said it. The English say, 
‘deeds not words,’ and they are silent. Yes, the 
English silence is over half the world, while the 
Germans are talking together, in Germany.” 

Not quite understanding him, I said nothing to 
this, but waited. He recrossed his little legs. 

“Well,” he went on, “I will rise to the scratch 
at once, as you say in England. It is from my 
friend Otto Henschel I am come.” 

“Otto Henschel,” I said, perplexed, for I 
knew no one of that name. 

“Yes; the young man who gave you the papers 
last night.” 

“Papers!” I murmured, my perplexity deeper 
than before. 

The shadow of a frown passed over Herr 
Wohlenhaupt’s face. He must have thought I 
was acting a part. 

“Sir,” he said, “surely you will not deny that 
you received papers from my young friend, in the 
Keppelstrasse, last night?” 

At the mention of the Keppelstrasse I under- 
stood. Involuntarily my hand went to my breast 


STEALTHY TERROR 


38 

pocket in which the packet lay. Herr Wohlen- 
haupt after his indignant question was watching 
me, and seeing the action nodded, with some ap- 
pearance of relief, as I observed. 

“Pardon me,” I said, pulling out the packet, 
“your question misled me: you mentioned the 
contents. I had, of course, no knowledge of what 
was in this packet.” 

“You have not looked inside!” he cried, 
amazed. 

“It seems to surprise you,” I replied drily. 
“But I have not.” 

Herr Wohlenhaupt eyed me keenly, and I re- 
turned his scrutiny. Then he gave a curious 
rumbling chuckle, and held out his hand to take 
possession of the packet. It was lying on my 
knee, and I had thrust my little finger idly 
through the hole made by the bullet. The man 
had risen to his feet, and his hand trembled with 
eagerness, at least I fancied so. My own hand 
I laid firmly over the packet. Some instinct 
prompted me to do this. But it may only have 
been because I was nettled at being suspected of 
prying curiosity. 

“One moment, sir,” I said. “How am I to 
be sure that in handing this over to you I am ful- 
filling the obligation I took upon myself?” 

“You suspect me ?” he began with some 

heat. 

I held up my hand, protesting. 

“There need be no talk of suspicion,” I went 


STEALTHY TERROR 


39 


on; “it is enough that I don’t know. But, as 
you have mentioned it yourself” — I pointed to 
the Berliner Tageblatt lying on the floor— “there 
is a paragraph in the paper which tells me the 
man is dead. What am I to make of that?” 

He pursed up his lips in contempt, and kicked 
at the paper. 

“Poof, the newspapers, they are always wrong. 
It is not an hour since I left Otto in his bed in 
the hospital. I will prove it to you.” 

He thrust his hand into his breast and ex- 
tracted a folded note which he handed me with 
a bow. Unfolding and reading it, I discovered 
it to be a request that I should give the packet 
entrusted to my care in such odd circumstances 
last night to Herr Wohlenhaupt, and receive the 
grateful thanks of Otto Henschel. 

It looked all quite regular, and there seemed 
to be nothing left for me to do but to discharge 
myself of the trust, and have done with the whole 
business. So I was thinking when the messen- 
ger’s voice broke in with some impatience: 

“And now, sir, that you have read for your- 
self my poor friend’s wishes, it only remains for 
you to hand over his property, so that I may rid 
you of my presence and no longer interrupt your 
leisure.” 

I smiled at the sarcasm with which he con- 
cluded — on account of my slippered feet I sup- 
pose — and said: 

“The funny thing is that I don't know that 


40 


STEALTHY TERROR 


this is Otto Henschel’s writing. Indeed, I don’t 
know that his name is Otto Henschel, if you 
come to that.” 

At this he drew himself up to his full height 
and folded his arms with a fine air of cold dig- 
nity. I suppose he saw I was hesitating. 

“Sir, I, August Eitel Wohlenhaupt, answer for 
it that that is the handwriting of my friend.” 

“Quite so, quite so,” I answered; and if I have 
to own the truth I must own that I was a lit- 
tle shaken. Then the illogicality of his po- 
sition struck me, and I laughed. “But who 
is to answer for Herr August Eitel Wohlen- 
haupt?” 

He fairly lost his temper at that. An angry 
flush overspread his massive face for a moment, 
and then, receding, left him more deadly pale 
than before. 

“ Ach /” he cried. “The exasperating English! 
You laugh pleasantly and hold on to the man’s 
property while he is dying. When he is dead you 
will consider his property your own! Your 
whole Empire is made up of the goods of dead 
peoples — who had your assistance in dying.” 

The ferocious hatred in his voice and eyes 
startled me. It was like a sudden glimpse into 
a furnace. Yet it made things easier for me. 

“At any rate,” I answered drily, “if your 
friend is dying I have the best reasons for believ- 
ing that he is dying from German and not from 
English bullets.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


4i 


That took the wind out of his sails. He nodded 
his big head, looking down on the floor. The 
anger had gone, as suddenly as it had come. But 
I had seen. 

“Pardon me, Herr Abercromby, I was over- 
wrought by thinking of my poor Otto, eagerly 
and, as I thought, vainly awaiting my return. You 
speak the truth there, and I did forget it. You 
were good to him, yes. You stood by him when 
there was no one else to help him! Ach, sir, if 
I could tell you all his story ! But I cannot, for 
it is his story and not mine!” 

There were veritable tears in his eyes, but he 
smiled in kindly fashion through them, as he 
again extended his hand to take possession of his 
friend’s packet. And, but for that momentary 
flash of burning hate into which he had been be- 
trayed, I would have given it him. Even then 
I was doubtful: his hate had been for me or my 
race, not for this Otto Henschel. I knew enough 
to be aware how common that feeling was. It 
was merely his patriotism, and for it, as such, I 
could make allowances. And yet ! 

“See here,” I said suddenly, “I’ll tell you what 
I’ll do. If you like I’ll accompany you to the 
hospital, and hand the thing over to the man 
from whom I received it, in your presence. 
There’s the solution to our problem!” 

Herr Wohlenhaupt stroked his chin. I thought 
he was fairly up against it then. But not a bit 
of it ! 


42 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Sir,” he said calmly, “that solution has been 
somewhat long in coming to you. Had it been 
a possible one, believe me, I would myself have 
assisted your mental processes by suggesting it.” 

“Why isn’t it possible?” 

“Because the police are in this affair. You 
would be arrested the minute you asked for Otto 
at the hospital.” 

“Well,” I answered, “I have nothing to fear 
from the police.” 

“Perhaps not,” said Wohlenhaupt. “I was 
not thinking of you, but of Otto.” 

“How about yourself?” I asked. 

“Me?” he returned. “I am a relation of his: 
it is natural I should visit him.” 

“A relation!” I said, surprised. “You had 
not mentioned the fact.” 

He gazed at me in blank astonishment. 

“But, sir, why should I be here at all other- 
wise ?” 

It was all perfectly neat and pat! There was 
always something that balked me! It might be 
perfectly true and natural, but somehow the feel- 
ing rose in me that it was too natural and neat 
to be nature: it is art, and not nature, that pro- 
vides for all contingencies. He had me cornered 
at every step. Then, as I pondered, a question 
came to me. I shot it at him, thinking to get him 
in a corner: 

“By the way,” I said, “who gave you my name 
and address?” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


43 


And, by Jove, I had him cornered! It is curi- 
ous that, having provided so complete and cir- 
cumstantial a story in other respects, the first 
obvious fact that required to be accounted for 
had been overlooked. It is true that up to that 
moment I had myself overlooked it — still, I had 
not had his time for thoughtful preparation. 

There was, however, no trace of embarrass- 
ment in the face that regarded me, and the mask 
was simply dropped when he spoke. I told him 
what I thought of him, and what I proposed to 
do about the papers. He turned. 

“What is your price?” he asked calmly. 

“Price!” I gasped. 

“Ah!” he nodded. “Neither to be persuaded 
nor bought — an honest obstinate fool, an Eng- 
lishman.” 

It was impossible not to laugh at this. He 
pointed a finger at me. 

“Herr Abercromby,” he said gravely, “you 
have told me that if you read in the papers to- 
night of that man’s death you will open that 
packet, and choose your course by what you find 
there. Well, you will read in the papers to-night 
that the man is dead — for it is essential that he 
should die. I trust, sir, you will read the an- 
nouncement with a fitting solemnity, for you will 
then be reading your own death warrant, un- 
less ” 

“Neither to be persuaded nor bought, nor 
threatened,” I interrupted him. 


44 


STEALTHY TERROR 


He looked down at me in pity. 

‘‘Threatened!” he said. “Young man, when 
I said you will die to-night if you open that thing 
I was not threatening you, but making a pre- 
diction and doing you a kindness, for, let me 
tell you, there are those behind this affair to 
whom it is far less trouble to do than to threaten 
to do.” 

At that I got on my feet to close the inter- 
view. 

“Herr Wohlenhaupt, the role of turgid 
tragedian suits you better than that of bereaved 
relation. You are better with the bludgeon than 
with the rapier. But you may go back to those 
who sent you and say you’ve done your best. 
Now, if you will excuse me — I am going to be 
rather busy.” 

He had taken a card from his waistcoat pocket. 
I felt rather sorry for him. 

“You did very well, you know,” I said. “You 
very nearly had it!” 

“I’ll forgive the sneer, sir ” he said, laying 

the card on the table. 

“It was really an admission,” I interjected. 

“If by three o’clock you are wise enough to 
change your mind, and leave the papers at this 
address.” 

When he had gone I picked up the card; it 
was inscribed, “Joseph, Cafe Rosenkrantz.” 

Of course it never entered my head to return 
the papers in the manner suggested. Apart from 


STEALTHY TERROR 


45 


all questions as to my obligations towards the 
real owner, it was intolerable to me to be, so to 
speak, placed at the disposal of a set of foreign- 
ers who chose to play at the dagger and dark 
lantern style of tragedy. I watched Herr Wohlen- 
haupt pick his way across the Square, and before 
he had disappeared round the corner I had my 
mind made up: the hospital to which the man 
had been taken must be found; I must know 
definitely whether he was alive or dead. If alive 
I would find means of returning his packet; if 
dead I would probably send it by post to the 
police. Then I should be rid of an exceedingly 
unpleasant business. 

At this time my theory was that the papers 
in the packet were either the proceeds of some 
coup by the gang of unscrupulous international 
thieves, of whose operations there had been no 
little talk in the press lately, or some blackmail- 
ing materials that would bowl over some rich 
man, and which would be as good as a regular 
income to the possessor. Something sinister or 
valuable, or perhaps both, it must contain, since 
blood was so freely shed on its account. 

There was little difficulty in finding the Keppel- 
strasse. I met a good many idlers walking about 
in it, drawn by the report of the affair. But 
I could get no information as to which hospital 
the men had been removed. All sorts of con- 
tradictory stories could be heard from the self- 
important individuals who, surrounded by little 


STEALTHY TERROR 


46 

knots of people, professed to have full knowledge 
of the affair. They were wrong even as to the 
spot at which the affray took place; and seeing 
this I gave up hope of obtaining any real infor- 
mation. 

Contenting myself with getting the name of 
the nearest hospital, I set off expecting to find 
my man there. But I failed to find him there, 
or at the three others to which I went. Either 
they took me for a newspaper man, about whom, 
no doubt, they had their orders, or he had been 
taken much further off. Indeed, if as the Tage- 
blatt reported the man was dead he would not be 
taken to the hospital at all, but to the police 
mortuary. This was very likely the real expla- 
nation. Still, I could not be certain. So as I 
was rather tired out by my search I made up 
my mind to betake myself to a cafe, and there 
await the first issue of the evening papers, which 
would surely give me some clue in the additional 
facts they would contain. 

It was a hot afternoon. I took a seat that 
was under the outside awning, with just the plants 
in the big green tubs between myself and the 
street. The time of waiting seemed long. At 
last the sound I had been listening for reached 
me. Away at the far end of the street I could 
hear the shouting newsboy. Presently he came 
up the step and approached each table in turn. I 
waited till he came to me. At the top of the 
front column was this : 


STEALTHY TERROR 47 

“The Affair in the Keppelstrasse. 

“The man found in the Keppelstrasse hand- 
cuffed to a police official died in the hospital after 
admission without recovering consciousness. He 
has not yet been identified. The condition of the 
officer is unchanged. We understand that the 
police are in possession of several strong clues, 
and developments of a startling nature are im- 
minent.” 

For the moment I did not quite see what to 
make of the paragraph. There was a want of 
harmony between this and the earlier report. 
“The condition of the officer is unchanged.” So 
it would be, if the man’s condition was as the 
first report had it. What did they expect? It 
made me rather angry. Wohlenhaupt had been 
right about it. He had lied, though, in saying 
he had been sent by him., But of course I knew 
that already. So the little fellow was dead! It 
is curious how the feeling of his packet against 
my breast gave me a sympathy for him, almost a 
sense of fellowship or partnership at that mo- 
ment. He must have loved life like other men. 
Certainly he had fought pluckily to keep a hold 
on it, and met death like a man when he saw it 
inevitable. At the church across the way the 
clock was striking the hour. The three strokes 
sounded sonorously, as if they were a passing 
bell. Then I recalled the fantastic Wohlenhaupt, 
that cross between our own Guy Faux and the 


48 


STEALTHY TERROR 


Corsican Brothers. From him I had no fear. 
The sight, however, of a policeman sauntering 
along, with an apparently casual glance at me, 
was a reminder that I myself might be one of the 
clues mentioned. It might be as well to make 
for my rooms, and resume my search for the 
scissors which Herr Wohlenhaupt had inter- 
rupted. 

With this purpose in view I threw the news- 
paper aside and stepped down into the street. 


CHAPTER III 


I T was, as I have said, my purpose to go to 
my rooms, in the seclusion of which I could 
examine the contents of the black packet. 
The distance was not more than a mile, and 
being now more than sufficiently rested by my 
easy afternoon in a cane chair, amid the orange- 
plants, I proposed a saunter homewards through 
the pleasant streets. It took some time for me 
to realise how much lay between me and that 
lodging in the quiet square. It must be confessed 
that I was rather slow in appreciating the true 
significance of certain happenings that were now 
to come thick and fast upon me. 

The fact is I was nearer death than I had ever 
been, before I had taken fifteen steps from that 
cafe’s veranda. Leisurely crossing the street, I 
heard a sudden, startled shout from several 
voices. I did not know to whom they shouted, 
nor indeed if to any one; and I did not stay to 
look. I couldn’t tell you why I didn’t; I only 
know that I sprang desperately for the pavement. 
It was some deep down animal instinct that dic- 
tated that mad leap. Something like that auto- 


50 


STEALTHY TERROR 


matic flash that closes the eyelid, far ahead of 
any message from the brain, near as that is to the 
threatened eye. As I lay on the pavement, I saw 
a woman near me leaning against the park rail- 
ings, covering her face with her hands. Several 
people came running up to assist me. 

“What was it?” I gasped. 

“That car. There it is!” a man cried. “Ah, 
it is out of sight already; it never stopped!” 

And they all vociferously denounced the in- 
iquity of motorists. They were all very kind. 
Indeed, one old gentleman, whose white side 
whiskers reminded me of a celebrated diplomatist, 
knelt on the ground to dust my knees with his 
own handkerchief, while his friend, a tall young 
fellow in spectacles, supported me with his arm. 

I was astonished to find that the experience could^ 
so unnerve me. Still, that sudden swoop of Death 
has to be experienced to be understood. I had 
looked past the people around me, had seen the 
track of the wheels suddenly converge towards 
the pavement and knew what that meant. I gazed 
in horrid fascination at the faint marks of those 
wheels on the hard wooden street, and they made 
a deeper impression on my mind than they did 
on the road. A sensation almost like nausea took 
hold of me. 

I was recalled to myself by feeling the soft 
touch of fingers in the region of my heart. The 
kindly old gentleman had finished with my knees, 
and was, I suppose, feeling me over to ascertain 


STEALTHY TERROR 


5i 


possible bruises. His fingers were resting lightly 
on the packet when I released myself. That 
touch was electrical! It may be that he was the 
medical man he claimed to be; but I assured him 
that I had really no need of further services, and 
declined the offer he made to accompany me home 
in a cab. And as at this juncture a policeman 
came up to disperse the loitering people, we 
bowed to each other and, after my thanks, we 
separated. I trust I do him no injustice. He 
may have been a doctor. On the other hand he 
and his friend may have been just a pair of — 
well, members of the floating criminal fraternity 
of Berlin, to whom no opportunity comes amiss. 
To-day I know that in this last thought I did 
less than justice to the common Berlin thief; and 
yet he may have been a member of my own pro- 
fession. 

The incident had taken place in the Potsdam- 
erplatz. By the time I had turned into the nar- 
row Friedrichstrasse I had dismissed it from my 
mind. The afternoon was wearing on, and most 
of the people had finished their shopping or their 
promenade, and were making for home, the omni- 
buses crowded, taxis busy, so that the policeman 
on point duty opposite the Cafe Kranzler had his 
hands full. Standing to light a cigarette under 
the ornamental clock tower that fronts the Hotel 
Bauer, I watched the traffic before crossing the 
street; I had had my lesson. Quite by chance I 
observed a lady, who had come out of the Kodak 


52 


STEALTHY TERROR 


shop at the corner, signal to an approaching taxi. 
The man missed seeing her somehow, and sailed 
up to the island on which I stood. 

“Taxi, sir?” he called to me, leaning forward 
over the control. 

Now you can understand, if you have ever 
yourself barely escaped with your life from under 
fat rubber wheels, that for an hour or so after- 
wards they are repellent. Besides, though he 
may have missed the waving umbrella he could 
scarcely have been deaf to the high-pitched vocal 
remonstrance. She was following up too ! Some- 
thing made me delay to answer the man’s ques- 
tion. I wanted to see if he was after any fare or 
some special and particular fare. He had de- 
scended and thrown open the door before I had 
relit my cigarette. But when the indignant and 
breathless lady arrived he barred her en- 
trance. 

“This gentleman!” he said calmly. 

But when she turned her volubility on me I 
quickly assured her it was unthinkable that I 
should deprive her, however urgently I needed 
the cab. So I saw her in, and raised my hat as 
she rolled away. I resumed my walk a little 
thoughtful. The explanation, of course, was that 
all taxi drivers prefer male passengers on account 
of a real, or supposed, greater generosity with 

tips. Still I wondered. Three incidents had 

happened to me since three o’clock. Any of them 


STEALTHY TERROR 


53 


such as might have happened to any one. But 
three inside an hour! I thought of Wohlenhaupt 
with more respect, for there began to creep into 
my mind the suspicion that these incidents did 
not come by chance but by the choice of some 
governing and directing will. If it were so I 
would soon have further experiences, things that 
would seem to happen to me by chance, but 
which, in reality, were carefully planned and 
thought out with all the love of detail and thor- 
oughness which is so large a part of Teutonic 
methods. 

My rooms began to seem much farther off. 
I had a queer thrill of expectation, wondering 
what would happen next, but keeping very alert 
as I threaded my way along the narrow pavement 
of the Friedrichstrasse. I knew better than to 
take the usual and direct way home, feeling cer- 
tain that if I was indeed surrounded by unseen 
and methodical enemies a good many traps would 
already be set along the route. So I did not 
hurry, knowing that I was fairly safe from any- 
thing but apparent accidents so long as I kept to 
the more crowded thoroughfares. I kept on the 
move, with a roving eye for the various small 
interests of the streets. I tried to see if I had 
that sense of being watched, of which one some- 
times hears in works of fiction, and came to the 
conclusion that it is a feeling one can engender 
in oneself, by simply suspecting the presence of 
watchers behind one. 


54 


STEALTHY TERROR 


Sometimes in my leisurely promenade I would 
stop at a corner of some shop window and cast 
a casual glance around. But not once did my 
eye light on any of the pedestrians who seemed 
to be dogging me. I tried, too, to memorise the 
people, and from time to time would scan them 
to see if I could identify one I had already seen; 
but I never did. If I was being watched it was 
by people who gave no sign. 

Finally I bethought me of a dodge that might 
draw them. There is an American bar just where 
the railway spans the street, and this bar, I knew, 
had two exits, a main one in the Friedrichstrasse 
and another farther down in the side street that 
faces the railway culvert. Suppose I went in. 
They would certainly expect me to leave by the 
other door if they suspected I knew of their sur- 
veillance — if indeed it was not all fancy, of which 
I was by no means sure. It was an hour at which 
the place was sure to be deserted. Well, I entered, 
and standing at the counter “named my poison,” 
of the approved American mixture. Save for 
two very swell negroes, lolling in graceful atti- 
tudes at the far end of the bar, I had the place 
to myself. “Now,” I said to myself as I sipped 
the cool iced drink gratefully, “we’ll see if I am 
watched”; for I knew that they would not dare 
to let me out of their sight. So I waited for the 
door to open. It was a thrilling moment! 

I don’t know what I expected. Certainly not 


STEALTHY TERROR 


55 ‘ 


the figure that did actually shove the door open, 
a little wretched creature of a flower-seller, with 
a dozen or so of buttonhole roses arranged on 
a little tray supported by a strap round his neck. 
He threw a hasty glance around, and when he 
saw the flamboyant coloured gentlemen made 
straight for them, passing me without a second 
look. Evidently he knew where his chances lay. 
I watched the trafficking with amusement. So 
also did two other men who then came in. The 
negro gentlemen did not appear to be well posted 
in the language, and the negotiations were con- 
ducted chiefly by gesture. The new-comers, 
though thirsty, were prepared to be affable, and 
quickly detected the source of my amusement at 
the other end of the bar. Presently, after much 
gesticulation and raising of eyebrows, the be- 
jewelled coloured gentlemen had added button- 
holes to the rest of their adornments, and the 
flower-seller approached us, beaming at his own 
success. 

His joy, however, was destined to be short- 
lived. One of the late arrivals, who had turned 
to speak to the bar tender — that I believe is the 
correct designation — did not observe the hawker’s 
approach, and in extending his foot negligently 
tripped the man up, just as he came to me, so 
that he fell, and his flowers were scattered on the 
floor. When I helped him to his feet he was 
extraordinarily enraged, and the other replying 
hotly, and at the same time trampling on the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


56 

fallen blooms, we soon had the prospect of a 
nasty row. The flower-seller appealed to me, and 
the man who had caused the accident appealed 
to his friend. I was taken aback by the prompt- 
ness of the storm. 

But not so much so as to miss its possible sig- 
nificance. It was all so very neat. Fairly confi- 
dent that I had got the information I sought by 
my entry into the place I did not stay to inter- 
vene in the squabble, as no doubt I was expected 
to do, if they were the people for whom I took 
them. 

I walked as far as the Brandenburger Tor. 
The sense of being shadowed strengthened in me, 
and I didn’t like it. Only once before had I 
experienced that feeling, and I recalled it then. 
After an exceptionally hard session in the medical 
school I had taken a holiday at a village set in 
one of the valleys among the Grampians. One 
day night overtook me on the way back after a 
long walk on the high moors. The road ran in 
the bottom of the valley and the woods were so 
close that the branches of the pines met overhead. 
There was a mile of it like that — so dark that I 
could not see the road at my feet. It was as 
silent as the grave too; but by and by, in the si- 
lence, I began to hear strange soft voices and 
whisperings all around me. My reason kept 
urging that there was nothing there, but some- 
thing else in me, for which science has as yet no 
pame, made reason abdicate for the time being, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


57 

and, taking over muscular control, forced me to 
run till I was out of that eerie place. 

It was odd that the half-forgotten experience 
should come back to me in the Pariserplatz. Was 
the sense of being a hunted man developing in 
me? Certainly I was rather fatigued, but it 
wasn’t that. Physical fatigue is a healthy and 
wholesome thing; and this fatigue was a faintly 
nauseating sensation, a malaise of the mind and 
soul. My gorge rose against Germans. Hitherto 
while my sympathies were French I had never, 
on that account, felt any need of antipathy for 
Germans. A sort of cold rage gripped me. I 
turned on my heel and, looking neither to right 
nor left any more, made off straight for my 
rooms. 

The long summer evening was wearing itself 
out when I reached my own doorstep. Over the 
gardens the houses on the far side of the square 
stood dark, their roofs silhouetted sharply against 
the last glow of the calm evening sky. From 
somewhere within the enclosure a thrush made 
the quiet square resound with his liquid, flute-like 
notes. No one was in sight. Whatever gentry 
were on my heels had had a pretty sharp walk. 

I slipped my latch-key home and entered. Here, 
at any rate, was a haven in which I could be at 
peace awhile. 

I determined to go early to bed, for it had 
been altogether an exhausting day. But first I 
would satisfy myself as to the contents of the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


58 

papers in my possession: there could be no sleep 
until after that had been done. In the morning 
I might perhaps find it well to go over the town 
to consult with Peter Dunn, the one man, a post- 
graduate student like myself, in whom I could 
place reliance in any rough and tumble business. 
If I had been wise I would have gone to Peter’s 
instead of coming home, but I was tired; and 
the thought of the restfulness of my rooms drew 
me to them; and, besides, I did not yet realise 
the danger in which I stood. Accordingly, it 
seemed to me that I could handle the affair, such 
as it was, myself, and have a good story that 
would make Peter lift his eyebrows, when I told 
him of it afterwards. 

So, after Trudchen had brought me hot water 
and I had had a wash, I entered my sitting-room, 
determined that this time no one should balk me 
of my inspection of the mysterious papers. To 
this end I had told the girl not to admit any one, 
and when she said that Frau Loeb had gone to 
visit a sick relation and might be away till very 
late, if she did return that night, and that as she 
herself was proposing to retire, having had a busy 
day with the mistress of the house absent, no one 
could be admitted unless I myself descended to 
admit them, I was satisfied on that point, and 
readily gave her the permission to retire, for 
which she asked in her heavy, sullen way. 

No sooner had I snapped on the light than I 
saw that there was something funny about my 


STEALTHY TERROR 


59 


room. I stared round awhile without at first 
grasping what it was. The place had somehow 
an unfamiliar look. What was it? Then sud- 
denly I saw. It was all so scrupulously neat, so 
perfectly arranged. No stray papers littered the 
floor, and my books were all in their places. Even 
my MS. notes of lectures were on my desk, kept 
in place by the paper-weight, which was indeed 
heavy enough to be proof against a gale of wind, 
much less a draught from open windows, being a 
thing of red Aberdeen granite, a replica in 
miniature of the memorial erected to a deceased 
professor of theology, a solid, square heathenish 
sarcophagus from Egypt or Babylon. 

My amusement, however, was shortlived when 
I found that, as is usual in rooms arranged by 
deft feminine fingers, I could not find what I 
searched for — the scissors to cut the finely drawn 
threads of my packet. Finally, I concluded that 
the girl must have taken them for her own use, 
and fearing she might be gone to bed if I hunted 
longer I rang rather sharply, being in the usual 
state of heat that such a well-arranged room 
arouses in most men. 

She seemed a long time in answering. I 
waited awhile and rang again. Down below I 
could hear the bell jangling, and then gradually 
die into silence. There was still no response. 
Then I went out to the top of the stairs and 
called down, peering over the banisters. The 


6o 


STEALTHY TERROR 


girl certainly could not yet have gone to bed, for 
even if I had missed hearing her mount to her 
attic she had not had time. Yet down the dark 
well of the staircase I could see no chink of light 
anywhere. I called more loudly, and my voice 
raised echoes that were like many voices answer- 
ing me. In the sudden, dead stillness that fol- 
lowed, I began to feel that eeriness that comes 
over one who is alone in a house when dusk has 
fallen. I went back to my lighted room, my ir- 
ritation gone. The girl must have gone out on 
some domestic errand she had forgotten, perhaps 
to remind some forgetful tradesman. And yet it 
could not be that, for all the shops must have 
been closed for some time. 

As I stood irresolute, the precision of my room 
again caught my eye. Perhaps it had been 
searched! Not, of course, in the hope of dis- 
covering the papers — they were not such fools as 
to have that hope — but for some useful purpose. 
They are such a thorough race! No small fact 
that related to my tastes, habits or character 
would be overlooked. The precise manner in 
which everything had been replaced would be 
itself a concealment. Still, though I dismissed 
this from my thoughts as far-fetched, I began to 
be uneasy in my mind. Trudchen had never been 
a person to be called amiable or engaging; but it 
seemed to me now that she had been more sullen 
and farouche than was her wont. And what did 
this absence portend? I became restless. Where 


STEALTHY TERROR 


6 1 


now was the sense of security I had promised my- 
self in returning to my rooms? What a fool I 
had been to come! I ought to have gone to 
Peter Dunn’s when I had the chance. Then I 
shouldn’t have been left alone in the house, 
trapped in it, with the long night rapidly ad- 
vancing. Was it really too late to go? 

I am ashamed to say it, but I tiptoed out on 
to the landing again, and again peered down into 
the black and cavernous well of the staircase, 
listening intently. Dearly would I have liked to 
ring again; but I could not, I couldn’t endure 
the sudden, strident clang of that bell bursting 
upon this silence. And perhaps there was no 
Trudchen to answer. Perhaps I had done the 
dull, honest girl an injustice in thinking her an 
accomplice of these men. She herself might be 
a victim; and I pictured her lying extended on 
the kitchen floor suddenly strangled, her face 
blackening, the tongue protruding horribly, and 
that bell in violent and ineffectual motion overhead. 

The intense stillness and darkness took me by 
the throat. There were certainly men waiting 
for me down there! I remembered, and now 
understood, that prayer of Ajax when the attack 
came on Troy, that he might have light to see 
his enemies’ face. Certainly I swore at myself 
for a fool — and still listened as I did so. I must 
get out of this house. Now I was sure I had 
been followed. No doubt remained. The place 
was a trap. I^would go over to Dunn’s. Peter 


62 


STEALTHY TERROR 


was a man of mind as well as muscle. It would 
be quite easy yet But the chief thing was to get 
away, anywhere, out of this house. 

But the thought of a step by step descent of 
that staircase made me shudder. It was all so 
portentously still and quiet, and I would have 
thought that time itself stood still but for the 
loud knocking of my heart. And then, as I made 
a step forward, there seemed to break into the 
immense silence the murmur of voices whisper- 
ing together down there. It was that accursed 
wood over again, only this time they were real! 
And as I leaned far over the banisters to catch 
at confirmation my ear seemed to find it, as some 
voice struck a chance sibilant in a word that 
carried farther than the deep gutturals. Then 
somewhere below the stairs creaked. 

I drew back as if I had been shot and, lifting 
my clenched fists in the darkness, cursed myself 
for a blind fool. I had been impervious to warn- 
ings. Incidents, full of significance, had come to 
me, and had fallen, like the good seed, on stony 
ground, had bounced off my understanding like 
hail off a slate roof. I had indeed put up a poor 
fight. Fight! there had been no fight! They 
had simply followed me about, and now they 
were going to take the papers. Incidentally they 
would also take my life; but that merely on 
account of the trouble to which I had put them, 
and not because it was anything to which they 
attached value or significance. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


63 

I stood back against the wall and waited. A 
sentimental sadness came over me. It was such 
a futile thing to end one’s life so, incontinently, 
on a lodging-house staircase. True, I might hide 
myself in some corner, or cupboard, in the upper 
regions of the house; but I should inevitably be 
discovered in the ignominious shelter, and only 
die five or ten minutes older, my person covered 
with cobwebs and dust. It behooves a man to die 
always with fortitude, and, if possible, with 
dignity. Thus the coward and the sentimentalist 
in me. 

The fact is I was pretty far through. There 
may be men who could pass through my recent 
experiences and apprehensions and show neither 
physical nor nervous exhaustion. A wonderful 
and unnatural breed! In my experience bravery 
is almost always connected with fear; and perhaps 
the bravest deeds in the history of man have been 
done in a reaction from fear. The brave man is 
not the man who never fears, for there is no such 
man : he is the man who reacts against fear. And 
the difference between a brave man and a coward 
is simply this, that the one does, and the other 
does not react. 

The first step on the road back to sanity was 
made when it occurred to me that, even if I my- 
self must be taken by these cruel and bloody men, 

I could prevent them from taking that which they 
valued most, the u Henschel” papers. With the 
notion of getting rid of the papers I stole back to 


6 4 


STEALTHY TERROR 


my room. There was no fire of course, which 
fact saved me from my first foolish thought — 
foolish because, for all I knew, to destroy the 
papers might be all they themselves desired. So 
I turned to the window, thinking to throw the 
packet far. It was thin and firm in its American 
leather case, and would skim like a slate, perhaps 
even into the gardens, where it might chance to 
be found by an honest person. 

* But even as I got ready for the throw, a better 
course of action came into my mind. It is a fact 
that ever since I knew they were there, prepar- 
ing to steal on me unawares, that is to say, ever 
since the danger had not in it anything of that 
dread of the unknown which is probably man’s 
inheritance from the stone age, when his ancestors 
lived in a mysterious and strangely peopled world, 
I had been getting back to myself. Once I saw 
that the danger was what men call “real” I ceased 
to fear it. My wits became active. There would 
be a fight for it yet ! 

Kicking off my shoes, I went and removed 
the three bulbs from the electric pendant which 
illuminated the room. Then I picked up the 
heavy granite paper-weight and slipped behind 
my half-open door, listening. 

It was quite dark. The street lamp below 
cast a faint radiance on the white plaster ceiling 
that intensified the blackness of the room. The 
only visible thing in it was a white plaster bust of 
the Emperor that stood on the top of a flimsy 


STEALTHY TERROR 65 

kind of fretwork cabinet. In the dim light re- 
flected from the ceiling the bust, with upturned 
moustache and baleful eye, rose ghost-like above 
the blackness of the room. 

Then, distinctly, I heard the stairs creak twice. 
I had not left myself much time. Presently there 
was a soft shuffle of feet on the landing, and then 
a pause outside the half-open door. They were 
perhaps at first puzzled at the darkness and 
silence. Perhaps they thought I had fallen asleep 
in my chair. Then some one entered the room. 
It was so still that I could hear his finger-tips 
passing over the wall-paper and woodwork, 
searching for the switch, and there was a sudden, 
metallic click as it was found and pressed down. 
But the room did not leap into light ! After the 
briefest interval I heard the second switch go 
down ; but with the bulbs removed there was again 
no result. I felt that men had come into the 
room, and knew that I had but to extend a hand 
to touch them. In that tense moment their breath- 
ing was audible, and I feared they must hear the 
beating of my heart. 

I imagine they stood awhile, intent, every sense 
strained to discover in what part of the room 
I was. If only I could get them separated ! Then 
I heard a sound that told me some one had gone 
down on hands and knees, and was beginning to 
creep stealthily over the floor. I was convinced 
they knew the exact position of every article of 
furniture, and had in their mind’s eye the whole 


66 


STEALTHY TERROR 


contents of the room. Anyhow, the man on the 
floor avoided collision with the things, and made 
no noise that would have awakened the lightest 
sleeper. He was making progress too I I heard 
the soft sweep of his hands on the floor close to 
the corner in which I stood, and knew that the 
moment for action was upon me. 

I gripped my paper-weight tight — that me- 
morial to the eminent theologian — and hurled it 
into the far and opposite corner of the room. 
It made a perfectly infernal racket as it struck 
that flimsy fretwork erection, for, as I have said, 
it was fashioned out of solid Aberdeen granite. 
I fancy it brought the whole erection down; it 
certainly laid Kaiser Wilhelm low, for I saw that 
his white ghostly face had disappeared. 

They jumped to the conclusion that I had been 
trying to conceal myself behind the cabinet. 
There was a rush of feet across the room. I 
think some of them fell over the man on the 
floor. There were deep guttural German oaths. 
Two shots rang out. They had got separated, 
and were as likely to kill each other as to kill me. 

In the midst of the hubbub I was round the 
door and down the stairs in a flash. The back 
door was ajar. This door led out on to a narrow, 
cobbled alley that emerged on a traversing side 
street at each end. I did not at once rush into 
this alley, but prospected it first from the shelter 
of the door. And it was as well I did so. There 
was some one standing in the shadow of the 


STEALTHY TERROR 67 

opposite wall. As far as I could make out he 
was watching the upper windows. The shots 
and the shouting had probably drawn his atten- 
tion. No doubt he thought there was good 
reason for supposing the guard was no longer 
necessary. Anyhow he came towards the door, 
and as he passed almost touched me where I 
stood, in the dark, against the wall. Had I been 
a minute later we would have met on the stairs. 
I slipped out, and ran for the exit to the street 
lower down, the rough cobbles hurting my feet 
cruelly. 

Once in the street I had to go back to a walk- 
ing pace, so as not to attract attention from any 
stray policeman. In spite of this I made good 
progress, and, being familiar with that neighbour- 
hood, was able to steer a straight course to the 
point at which I would find a taxi. 

Having changed when I came home I had no 
money in my pockets; but that troubled me little, 
for I would get Peter to pay the man when we 
arrived at his place. The only dubiety I had was 
as to whether the man would, in my shoeless and 
hatless state, let me enter his cab before I showed 
him my money. Besides, the suit I wore in the 
house was a very old one : I had been brought up 
to be careful of my clothes. 

However, determining to make up in swagger 
what I lacked in appearance, I plodded on hope- 
fully, for I was now in regions where I might 
pick up a cab at any minute. Presently 1 saw 


68 


STEALTHY TERROR 


the double lights swimming along. Taking up 
a position right under a street lamp and lighting 
a cigarette, I hailed the cab as it came on. Hap- 
pily it was disengaged, and promptly swung in 
towards the kerb. I gave him Dunn’s address, 
but no time for inspection ! 

It would be good to see Peter. What a lot 
I had to tell him, although I had seen him but 
three days ago. I would like to tell him of the 
undercut I had given the fat creature in the street 
last night, and we would sit up till, between us, 
we had settled on a plan for future action. Yes, 
it would be good to see Peter. He would do 
my nerves good. He would quieten me down; 
his big voice alone was a febrifuge for a tumul- 
tuous circulation. 

In perhaps twenty minutes we swung up to 
the flats at which Dunn lodged, and I vaulted 
out, telling the driver to wait till I came down. 
I noticed that he stared at my light blue silk 
socks, and seemed somewhat perturbed. He said 
nothing, however: my assured manner settled 
that. 

The assured manner had a brief existence! 
It went out of me like the wind out of a burst 
football when at the door of the flat I was in- 
formed that Peter had been called suddenly to 
London. This was as good an undercut as any 
I had come to boast about! To the woman I 
must have seemed the worse for drink, in my 
hatless and shoeless condition, and the fish-eyed 


STEALTHY TERROR 69 

stare with which I received her information must 
have confirmed the impression. She made haste 
to shut the door in my face. 

“One moment!” I cried desperately. “Will 
he be gone for long?” 

The foot I thrust in to prevent her shutting 
the door received a bruise, and did not succeed 
in its object, my question being left unanswered. 
As if it made the slightest difference to me in 
my present plight whether he came back next 
day or next year! But I continued to stare at 
the closed door. 

There was the cab too! Of course it was 
nothing when compared with my other dangers. 
One can bilk a cabman — a mean fraud, some- 
times with a touch of comedy in it. Under neces- 
sity I could do it; those flats had always a back 
exit to a common yard, and once there I could 
readily scale the wall. But, after that, where was 
I to go? And I was now so full of respect for my 
pursuers that I reached the point of debating with 
myself whether it would not be better to let the 
chauffeur catch me attempting to bilk him, and 
get myself locked up, in safety for one night at 
least. This course I had to dismiss when I 
thought of the papers in my possession which, 
when I was searched at the station, would connect 
me, whatever their contents might be, with the 
Keppelstrasse affair. I must really dodge the 
man. So only could I obtain the obscurity I 
sought. Well, I could not stand there longer, or 


70 


STEALTHY TERROR 


the driver would soon be ringing bells in search 
of his fare. When, however, I had descended 
there was my man waiting for me, on a spot from 
which he could keep an eye on his car and on 
the back exit I meant to use. Perhaps he knew 
all about back exits! There was now nothing for 
it but to assume the confidence that had before 
been real. 

“Drive me to the Cafe Rosenkrantz,” I said. 

Heaven knows why I named that place, per- 
haps the last place on earth in which I wished 
to find myself. Still, it did not matter. As I 
never intended to arrive there, one address was 
as good as another. 

But by and by I had good reason to be sorry 
for my selection of that address. 

The fellow was now deeply suspicious of me. 
How he contrived to read my intentions I cannot 
pretend to explain. I suppose he had a large 
experience. My innocent idea was to drop out 
when the car slowed down, either for traffic or in 
rounding a corner. But he travelled at such a 
speed, and the streets were so empty, that he 
never slowed down, so that, presently, I began to 
see myself being landed at the headquarters of 
those who sought me. Our pace was so great 
that at first I feared an accident, and then, as we 
got nearer and nearer to the Cafe I veered round 
and feared there would not be one ! Sometimes 
in rounding corners he did slow down, as other- 
wise the cab simply couldn’t have taken them, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


7i 


except on two wheels. But every time that 
happened the fellow kept casting round a watch- 
ful eye on me. It was this over carefulness that 
was his undoing, however. I had a piece of string 
in my pocket, which I had saved from a parcel of 
books received earlier in the week. This I tied 
to the window strap opposite. Then I carefully 
opened the door, just enough to free the catch, 
and got back to my place by the other door, just 
behind the driver, retaining my hold on the string 
all the while. We were in a quiet road bordered 
with trees. I waited! When to get round a 
corner the cab had sufficiently slowed down to 
give me half a sporting chance of not breaking 
my neck, I pulled the string and shut the opposite 
door with a bang and a click. The driver in- 
stantly slewed round, and, not being able to see 
me as I crouched down at the door behind him, 
instantly slammed on his brakes. Opening my 
door I got out, while he was freeing himself to go 
for the other door. Indeed, I was over the pave- 
ment, had vaulted the low iron railings, and was 
among the shrubs of the gardens, almost before 
he had pulled up. As I lay there, I heard him go 
cursing and shouting away down the road. It 
did not amuse me. 

Sitting on the earth among the bushes, I 
pondered moodily on my present desolate con- 
dition and dangerous future prospects. 


CHAPTER IV 


B EYOND Peter Dunn I had only the 
merest acquaintances in Berlin. Still 
there was a small number of fellow- 
countrymen, not to mention some young Ameri- 
cans whom I had run across, and in whom I 
trusted to find that the bond of a common coun- 
try, or, at least, a common blood, counted for 
something. This was what I wondered about, 
wondered as I sat on the damp earth, my head on 
my knees, my hands holding the blue socks that 
were black enough now. Would the fine, per- 
fervid nationality, so often expressed at our 
festivities in national songs, wake up to the pitch 
of practical help? 

This doubt on my part will, I know, move 
any Aberdeen Scotsman who has borrowed this 
book to an expenditure of generous indignation. 
Let me explain that every continental capital has 
its full complement of British subjects belonging 
to the scallywag class. They do not prey on the 
natives. Their victims are fellow-countrymen, 
and their lay is a plea for financial assistance, on 
the ground of common nationality; and a very 
powerful one it is, quite irresistible to a Scot. 

7 2 


STEALTHY TERROR 


73 


I was familiar with the breed, having myself 
parted with sums it then distressed me to think of 
to men who had talked to me of the sunrise on the 
Pentlands, the blue-grey morning smoke of Edin- 
burgh, or the way the water runs below the Teith 
Bridge at Callander; only to run across these 
homesick exiles a week or so later, still something 
short of the full fare back. I sighed as I thought 
of it. Could I not “venture to approach” others 
in such a way myself? I feared not, for the game 
could only be successful with the, as yet, inex- 
perienced, and even with them, to inspire confi- 
dence, a certain decency and rationality of appear- 
ance were needed. A man must not, as I did then, 
bear every evidence of having just emerged from 
a prolonged carouse. Still, my spirits did not 
touch anything like despair. It was true that I 
had not the least notion in what part of the city I 
was, for the road, in the brief glance I had of it, 
was unfamiliar. But no difficulty in outward con- 
ditions is likely to raise despair in a man who 
has just barely escaped an incontinent and un- 
wonted death. 

So now that the cabman’s hue and cry had 
long died away, and the man, as I charitably 
trusted, had reconciled himself to his loss, I got 
over the railings and set off in quest of charity. 

I was cold and stiff. A thin fine rain had 
begun to fall. Indeed, it was almost more like 
mist than rain, for it made the street lamps 
blurred and dim, and left little beads of moisture 


74 


STEALTHY TERROR 


on my clothes. The night was very still; not a 
soul could I see, and, though from afar there 
came the gathered undertone of the scattered 
night traffic of a great city, the only sound in my 
road was that made when the misty rain, gather- 
ing on the leaves, fell with intermittent “plops” 
on the earth. Had I had shoes, the percussion of 
my feet on the road in walking would soon have 
restored my chilled blood to warmth; but this, 
too, was denied me, for in the shoeless and tender 
condition of my feet, my going was more of a 
furtive slink than a walk. 

I judged myself to be somewhere in the 
neighbourhood of the Thiergarten, and not far 
from the Brandenburg Gate. It was my purpose, 
first, to find out exactly where I was, and then 
work my way by unfrequented streets and alleys 
to the district where most students reside. So I 
went on, taking my bearings as best I could, like 
some ship casting the lead in unknown seas. 

By and by I saw I was approaching streets 
that were less destitute of wayfarers; and I had 
to agree with myself as to what character I had 
best assume, that of plain tramp or of debonair 
roysterer. My clothes were very nearly bad 
enough for an outcast, but my chin was not. On 
the other hand, the roysterer calls aloud for 
notice from every one, while the beggar has only 
attractions for the police. I decided for the less 
conspicuous part of an outcast of the streets; 
and, with the help of some of that green mouldy 


STEALTHY TERROR 


75 


coating that gathers on tree trunks, I made my 
face and hands look as if they had not been 
washed for a month, and were now reconciled 
to it. 

At the first big street I had to cross, a discon- 
certing experience awaited me. Two men stand- 
ing on the refuge in the centre ceased speaking 
suddenly on my approach. I wondered at first 
if I really was such a pitiable spectacle as to strike 
the men dumb. Had I overdone my make up? 
A common fault with your amateur. I wasn’t 
across to the other pavement before they were 
up with me, and a piece of money was thrust 
into my hand. 

“What is that?” I said stupidly. Imagine a 
real beggar saying “What is that?” when his 
fingers closed on money! 

They were big stout fellows, and were scruti- 
nising me narrowly out of their small, sharp, 
pig-like eyes. When I spoke the one gave a 
grunt, to which the other nodded. 

“You are very kind.” 

I put a whine into it this time — but, alas, the 
very contrast to the staccato surprise of my first 
exclamation was in itself enough to raise sus- 
picion! They were very far indeed from being 
kind, those two. Seeing the glance that passed 
between them, a glance which made me suspect 
that I should be much more forcibly examined 
when we got to any conveniently quiet corner, I 
thought it high time to shake them off. Who 


STEALTHY TERROR 


7 6 

were they — plain clothes officers looking for some 
criminal? It was very awkward. Perhaps it 
might even be in connection with the Keppel- 
strasse affair. 

Whatever it was, it would never do to get 
myself arrested. I must make a bolt for it, and 
there must be no mistake about getting away. 
They began to walk one on each side of me, 
suspicious but as yet not sure. The moment 
they were their hands would be on me. I 
“sensed” that, as Americans say. Now your 
German is amazingly thorough, but he is not 
quick. Like all races, too, who do not play foot- 
ball he has a fixed idea that a person who 
attempts to escape must run forward . I remember 
the first occasion on which I perceived this curious 
fact. It was in Paris when an English touring 
fifteen were playing the Stade Frangaise. The 
Frenchmen always tackled forward, and they 
were quick enough certainly; but anything like a 
side step, or a wheel back, left them grasping at 
nothing more solid than the air. It takes a long 
time to explain, but in reality I fancy I was not 
more than three minutes altogether with these 
two men. Knowing, then, that they were ready 
to grasp the moment I made a forward bound 
I did the unexpected thing, backed suddenly and 
wheeled off at full pace — for I was always quick 
off the mark — down the street. They were both, 
as I have said, bulky men, and they were taken 
aback too, and floundered against each other. It 


STEALTHY TERROR 


77 


looked an easy thing for me; but I had this to 
give wings to my heels — a cry from one to the 
other: 

“The Englishman — Abercromby !” 

And at that I knew from what it was I had 
escaped. I heard them lumbering on behind me. 
Had they been representatives of law and order 
in plain clothes I should have heard much whist- 
ling, and a mighty hubbub. As it was they fol- 
lowed in silence. 

It was something of a day I had gone through. 
The usual placid tenor of a student’s life was no 
sort of preparation for this kind of thing. There 
is, too, a limit set to what one’s nervous system 
can sustain. True enough, death was no stranger 
to me. In hospitals I had often seen men die. 
But in hospitals men die quietly, in bed, with 
clean sheets, a due observance being paid by all 
concerned to the ritual of dying. It is quite 
another thing to meet Death stalking through 
the streets, and hitting out savagely and incon- 
sequently at entirely healthy people who chance 
to cross his path. True I had never found much 
difficulty in getting away from the gang; but I 
seemed to be continually meeting them. And 
the nervous exhaustion that was stealing over me 
began to give me the hallucination that I was 
surrounded by enemies, in a sort of net that was 
being drawn closer and closer. 

There was an immense danger for me in any- 
thing like a quiet street. 


78 STEALTHY TERROR 

I took breath for a moment, leaning against a 
door. 

I was no longer able to run. 

The place in which I found myself was a big 
empty square. There were no garden or trees in 
the centre, and so around its four sides one saw 
the entire quadrangle of its lamps. The darkness 
of the unlighted centre gave an impression of 
vastness, and the few lights that yet shone in the 
windows opposite seemed remote and diminutive. 
As I leaned against the big door, wiping away 
the cold sweat of exhaustion from my face, I 
heard the footsteps of some one advancing from 
my side of the square. I could tell it was a 
woman, for she was humming to herself some 
snatch of music. A woman of some strength of 
character, too, to judge by the firm, deter- 
mined tread, not to mention the fact that she was 
abroad at that hour, alone, and evidently un- 
afraid. 

I went to meet her. If only I had had a hat 
to raise in salutation! She did not, of course, 
hear me. 

“Madam,” I said. “Madam!” 

She looked a little startled, apparently coming 
back from dreams, and stared at me. As she 
passed me I saw she was quite young. She was 
carrying a roll of music under her arm. 

“Madam!” I cried, turning towards her, and 
holding out my hands. 

She lifted her roll of music threateningly. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


79 

“Take care!’* she cried, stamping her foot 
fiercely. 

A perfect spitfire of a girl. She had a pale 
face, rather Slavonic in outline, and her eyes were 
large. 

“I am taking care,” I answered eagerly. 
“Madam, you see before you a man whose life 
is in danger. There are those close at hand 
who will kill me if they find me alone, for I can 
run no more. Let me at least walk beside you 
till we reach some more frequented place.” 

She stared at me in blank amazement. I held 
up my hand. 

“Listen!” I said. . 

From the other side of the big empty square 
came the far-away sound of running feet. 

“You hear,” I said. “I have reason to believe 
that these men will take my life on this spot, if 
you do not help.” 

She turned her head, listening, and looked at 
me doubtfully. 

“It is, perhaps, already too late,” I said. 

And I did feel it was so. Nevertheless, I 
was going on to the last inch, and turned from 
her in despair. 

She came at me like a whirlwind, if you can 
imagine it, seizing my arm. 

“Come!” she cried. “No need to walk or 
run, come in here. I live here.” 

She was fumbling in her bag for her key, the 
key of the very door against which I had been 


8o 


STEALTHY TERROR 


standing, whilst the sound of the running feet 
became more clear and distinct. But she got the 
door open at last! We did not stay to shut it. 
Half scrambling, half stumbling up two flights 
of stone stairs, we arrived at the door of her flat. 
This time she had the key ready before we got 
there; but I was pushing at the door before she 
had time to turn the key. It was fine to hear 
the sound of a big bolt slipping home, and the 
rattle of a chain that put a stout door between 
me and my pursuers. I sank down on a chair 
in the hall; the reaction was almost too much 
for my self-control. The girl stood tense, 
pressed against the door. A clock beside me 
suddenly began to strike the hour. I was so 
startled that I rose suddenly, almost overturning 
the heavy chair. 

“Hush!” she called softly, still listening. 

I sank back ashamed. Seconds that seemed 
hours passed. In the end she came back to me, 
laying a quietening hand on my shoulder, and 
bending down. 

“They are there!” she whispered. “But I 
think they can’t make out which flat it is. Per- 
haps they are not even sure of the house.” 

She went back again to listen. A thundering 
fine girl: she wished to give me time to get hold 
of myself, before she brought me into pub- 
licity. I began to wonder what her friends would 
say to the guest she had introduced to the 
house. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


81 


Presently she returned. 

“They are gone now,” she said casually. 
“I don’t think they are likely to come back, do 
you?” 

Obviously the question was added so that she 
might hear my voice. I don’t think she knew 
much about men. She put me on the same 
emotional level as any girl, and expected, I 
believe, that my inward agitation must be re- 
vealed by an audible sob. This amusing notion 
did me a lot of good. 

“If that door can hold out,” I said — and the 
calmness of my tone must have reassured her — 
“and the windows are beyond reach from the 
ground, I don’t mind if they do come back.” 

“The door is very strong,” she said, switch- 
ing on the light. “And the flat is two stories up ; 
they can never reach us that way.” 

I had thought it was higher, we had seemed 
so long in our ascent. 

She was looking at me now, curiosity and pity 
mingled in her gaze, and I became horribly 
conscious of my tatterdemalion outfit. Stooping, 
I picked up her roll of music from the floor. 

“Please, could I have a wash? I’ll be very 
quiet, and not wake up any of your family.” 

She looked me full in the face. 

“I may as well tell you that we are alone in 
the house.” 

Perhaps she was still a little afraid, for she 
kept her eyes fixed on me steadily. 


82 


STEALTHY TERROR 


I held out a very dirty hand to her. She took 
it unflinchingly. 

When I had had a good wash I found her 
getting out some sort of a supper. She had 
lighted a fire which was crackling freely under a 
small kettle. 

“You know,” she said, busy with the plates, 
“I have very little to offer you. I don’t bother 
much about food myself.” 

She glanced up at me as she spoke and stared. 
I wondered what could be the matter. 

“I believe you are English?” She spoke in 
English. 

“And you too?” I replied, astonished. 

It was wonderful how cheering such a dis- 
covery was to me. 

“Whom did you take me for?” I said as we 
sat down. 

“For a Frenchman,” she answered. “Your 
German was so bad.” 

“And an Apache at that, eh? Well, I don’t 
mind.” I had come to loathe Germans. 

“Did you think I was a German?” 

I lied bravely. 

“No, not for a single moment.” 

She was indignant. 

“Have you the audacity to say you thought 
my German bad?” 

I made haste to put things right. 

“My own German is too elementary to enable 


STEALTHY TERROR 


83 


me to set up for a judge of any one’s German. 
It was not from that, but from your pity, and 
your quickness to understand.” 

She brushed this aside. 

“Poof!” she said, mocking. “I was going to 
knock you down with my music.” 

While I ate she told me about herself — for 
this she declared was the one form of conver- 
sation that could be managed as a monologue. 

Her name was Margarita Thompson, and she 
came from St. Andrews, Fife. She was a student 
of the piano, a private pupil of the famous 
August Hoffmann, with whom she had studied 
for four years. The money for her expenses 
she had made by a tour with three other girls in 
America and Canada. They had played as a 
quartette in all sorts of places. Were they never 
afraid? Well, only about finances. They had 
their ups and downs. Once, in Columbia, she 
was ill for two months with pneumonia and lost 
all her savings; so she had to begin again. As 
for other things, well, one of the girls, Felicity, 
had a special talent for freezing off unwelcome 
people. 

“It was from her that you learned how to 
handle your music roll?” I asked. 

Miss Thompson laughed. 

“Felicity would not have done that. She never 
even spoke, she slew with a look.” 

The flat, she told me, belonged to an old 
teacher of music whom she sometimes helped. 


8 4 


STEALTHY TERROR 


He and his wife were away at Cassel, for a week, 
on family affairs. 

When I had finished Miss Thompson made 
me extend my length on the couch and then 
brought me cigarettes. 

It was very pleasant to lie there in peace and 
safety, and see her eyes dilate in astonishment, 
and all shades of emotion pass across her face, 
while she listened to my story. 

I didn’t know what she was like as a pianist. 
She must have talent, however, for Hoffmann to 
have given her four years; for I knew the great 
man did not waste his time on the inept or un- 
gifted. Many amusing stories were current 
which illustrated his short method with moneyed 
mediocrity. She was a pretty girl, with thick 
black lustreless hair, well-defined eyebrows and a 
pale face, which, in repose, had a great deal of 
gravity about it, but which, in certain moods, 
became elfish. There was, indeed, as I afterwards 
discovered, a big slice of the gamin in her. 
Character and individuality showed in every 
motion of hands and head; and, had she not 
been a pianist, I would have set her down as an 
actress of unusual quality. 

I had nothing to be proud of in the story I 
unfolded to her. Perhaps there is no need of 
saying that to any one who, so far, has persisted 
with this narrative. Throughout I had been more 
or less of a simpleton — I use the word simpleton 
in place of another out of charity, not for myself 


STEALTHY TERROR 


85 


but because I am about to speak of exalted people. 
I had in fact scorned warnings in the superior 
manner of certain statesmen, and had refused to 
learn anything from events as they happened. 
The only difference between the politician and 
myself that could be put to my credit was that 
the effects of my stupidity fell on myself and on 
no others. And yet was this true? What was 
to happen to this brave girl who had saved me? 
Doubtless it was a fact that the ultimate shame of 
the statesman was not mine : I had not taken the 
money and neglected the duty; but, none the less, 
I had brought an enemy about that house. It 
would be a marked house henceforth, with hands, 
as numerous as they were unscrupulous, raised 
against it. 

So as I lay and smoked, and told my tale, the 
mere telling served to illuminate and clarify my 
mind. I took a silent resolution. I must, it 
seemed, be stupid: I need not be base. And if 
ever a man’s path of duty lay open and clear 
before him for once in this difficult world, it was 
then, when I saw that, at whatever personal cost, 
I must get away, and draw possible disaster from 
her. From these thoughts I opened my eyes, 
and looked at the girl. She was sitting on a 
cushion before the remains of the fire, engaged 
with her thoughts. 

Perhaps she thought I was asleep. Later I 
came to know that this silence was a trick of hers. 
When one told her anything, as like as not the 


86 


STEALTHY TERROR 


tale would be answered by a long silence. To 
strangers this seemed to mean lack of interest. 
The fact was as far otherwise as it could be. She 
had no facile insincerities of speech to simulate 
an interest she did not feel; but those who knew 
her knew that it was her habit to pass in review 
what she had been told, or the talk of others to 
which she had listened. Every fact would be 
taken up, examined, turned over, fitted into any 
possible combination, set in relation to her past 
experience of life, and only when the process was 
completed would she feel that she might justifiably 
speak. 

But I did not know all this then; and the 
silence resembled so much that silence which no 
man, perhaps, has ever entirely escaped; that 
which tells us it would be a grateful and refresh- 
ing sight to our host if he saw us uncross our 
legs and depart! 

So I got up. I took out my watch; it was 2.30. 
Daylight would be here before long, and the 
best chance I had of getting away would be in 
darkness. 

Miss Thompson took no notice of my action, 
sitting on with her thoughts, her arms around 
her knees, her fingers interlocked. 

A chill came over my spirits. Had I seemed 
altogether a fool in her eyes? Well, though I 
was determined to remove myself, I can yet own 
that I would have been glad if she had opposed 
me, even if she had not meant it. A word, or a 


STEALTHY TERROR 


87 


good wish, was at least not too much to expect. 
Or — this thought came suddenly — did she not 
believe my story? 

I stopped at the door. 

“Is there, about the house, any old hat or a 
pair of shoes I might have?” I asked diffidently. 

Miss Thompson looked up unmoved. 

“I’ll see in the morning,” she said. 

I smiled sadly and shook my head. 

“In the morning! Alive or dead I’ll be far 
enough away from the need of them, by then.” 

And I thought what a fine line that would 
make in a drama. It was all I could do to keep 
myself from folding my arms. But Miss Thomp- 
son was unimpressed. 

“Aren’t you comfortable here?” she asked. 
“I should think you have had enough adventures 
for one day.” 

There was about this something that recalled 
remonstrances familiar to my boyhood. It was 
the tone of an elder sister, or a much-worried 
mother, the mother who never feels easy in her 
mind about her boy except when he is in bed, 
and who inevitably gives her son the impression 
that she would like to keep him there for ever. 
In fact it made me laugh. 

“You are very good,” I said, “but I am al- 
ready under heavy obligations to you; and every 
hour I shelter here increases my debt and your 
danger.” 

She would not, however, heat of it; and in 


88 STEALTHY TERROR 

the end I had to say I must even depart without 
the shoes. 

Upon that she seemed to capitulate, bidding 
me wait, and leaving the room to search for the 
shoes. But she returned almost at once, and 
said: 

“If you must go, you’ll have to leave by the 
window, for I have hidden the key. Besides, 
there’s that packet you spoke of. You don’t 
imagine I’m going to let you go without seeing 
what is in it to make all this fuss — as if any 
woman would let it go unopened. I don’t think 
you know much about women, Mr. Abercromby.” 

And there was not much a man could say to 
that. Still it was, I fear, with an ill grace that I 
surrendered. 

She went over to the window and threw back 
the heavy blue curtain. 

“Look!” she cried. “The night has almost 
gone. It is clear enough for you to be seen, and 
yet there are no people about for your protection.” 

I looked out, and it was almost as she said. 
The lamps of the big square shone brightly down 
there in the dark. But the sky beyond showed 
signs of the coming day, and over the houses I 
could distinguish the three hundred feet of St. 
Peter’s rising above the city roofs. Yet it was 
far from being daylight. I peered through the 
glass, till I felt the chill on my forehead, for sign 
of any one, but on the street level there was too 
little light to distinguish what might be lurking 


STEALTHY TERROR 


89 


there. She let the curtain drop and I followed 
her to the table. To tell the truth I was not 
sorry to stay. And I wanted to see the contents 
of that fateful packet more, perhaps, than I had 
ever in boyhood wanted to explore the inside of 
a toy-drum, which is saying much. But I allow 
that the contents of a toy-drum are often a dis- 
appointment, in spite of the fact, as I now recall, 
that gentlemen engaged in the trade of toy-drum 
making seem to know that their handiwork would 
sooner or later be disintegrated. And so the 
more benevolent, and far-sighted, among them 
made provision against total disillusionment by 
enclosing certain pictures so highly coloured as 
to hold a reasonable prospect of satisfaction to 
the youthful explorer. 

As I sat at the table, with the girl leaning 
over me, to cut open that little package it was 
with a thrill of triumph that I remembered I had 
lived, in spite of them all, to see another day. 
For, if I had baffled them of one day, why not 
of two, or twenty years? I knew now more of 
their methods, and was myself fully awake. They 
had taught me a lot indeed, but I had not perished 
in the learning. Further, I was in the act of 
opening the packet, which Wohlenhaupt had 
sworn I would never live to do. Miss Thompson, 
in her impatience, laid a hand on my shoulder, 
and shook me. 

“Be quick!” she said. 

So I took the thing up. Some of the shiny 


9 o 


STEALTHY TERROR 


coating had come off in irregular spots that 
showed the rough white texture of the cloth 
beneath. 

The girl drew in a chair and sat down close 
beside me. We were both strung to a pretty 
high pitch of excitement. My hand trembled 
so that I could scarcely insert the scissors she 
thrust upon me. I could hear her breathing, 
close to me, come troubled and unevenly. I got 
the string cut at last, blaming the bluntness of 
her scissors, and unfolded the ends of the outer 
casing. Miss Thompson laid her hand gently on 
my arm as I did so. At first I thought this was 
from her uncontrollable curiosity, and smiled to 
myself at it; but the pressure of her fingers in- 
creased to such an extent as to discommode me 
at my task, and then to such a degree as almost 
to give me pain. She had the fine strong fingers 
of the pianist. 

Surprised, I looked up, and found her stiff 
and rigid with attention. But the attention was 
not for the half-opened packet. She was leaning 
away from me, listening at something she heard. 

“For heaven’s sake,” I whispered, “what is 
it? Do you hear anything?” 

She turned her white face towards me, pale to 
the lips. 

“Listen!” 

I guessed at the word rather than heard it. 
She motioned with her other hand towards the 
door, still holding on to my arm. We both held 


STEALTHY TERROR 


9i 


our breath, with strained attention. At first I 
heard nothing, and was beginning to think it was 
only her imagination, overwrought with the un- 
wonted excitement and want of sleep. But no! 
Her finer ear, trained to a more delicate percep- 
tion of sounds than mine, had not deceived her. 
For as I bent to listen I could distinguish a faint, 
far-away sound, a strange curious sound, quite 
indescribable in its cat-like stealth and softness. 
It was a horrible sound that made my blood run 
hot and cold. 

“They are there,” she murmured. 

“Do you mean at the door of the room?” I 
asked. 

She shook her head. 

“I am not sure — I don’t know — I cannot tell 
quite where it comes from,” she stammered. 

And indeed it was a thing so faint, and yet so 
pervading, as to have no contact with locality. 

When I hear men talking together in smoking- 
rooms about fear, and strange fearful experiences 
in queer places of the world, I do not speak of 
this experience of mine; but I understand them. 

I tried to rally her. 

“It is perhaps the people in the flat below us, 
a servant moving about.” 

She shook her head again. 

“There is no one below us; it is an empty 
flat.” 

We waited. 

At last it ■ grew to be such an intolerable 


STEALTHY TERROR 


92 

strain as to be beyond endurance. I got up and 
whispered to her : 

“Wait there; I am going to explore.” 

The girl was beside me, when, with infinite 
precaution, I opened the door that led into the 
hall. At first I did not know whether, hearing 
us, they had stopped work, or whether I ceased 
to hear because I had gone farther away from the 
sound. Out there in the dark hall there was 
nothing but the steady solemn tick4:ick-tick of 
the big clock. 

Then I heard the sound begin again; but now 
it was clearer and more defined; and I knew I 
was nearer. 

I went back to her where she was standing in 
the radiance of the half-opened dining-room door. 

“They are there,” I said. “They are doing 
something to the outer door.” 

She leaned against the wall and said nothing. 

“We cannot switch on the light,” I said, “for 
they would see it. But if you had an electric 
torch I could use that with safety.” 

She went away at once, and as I waited I ex- 
perienced bitter self-reproach at having involved 
her in such an affair, now realising that even if 
she came out of it with her life any tragedy in the 
house that would lead to police investigation 
would be a terrible affair for her. But for that I 
might have got assistance readily enough from 
a crowd of neighbours, by calling from the 
windows. The cost to her, however, was more 


STEALTHY TERROR 


93 


than I was prepared to see her pay. And I was 
fortified in this resolution by the big rage that 
now began to rise within me. It was that wild, 
tearing passion that makes a man see red, as 
they say, in me all the more powerful because I 
was ashamed of the fear that had preceded it, 
and had become again conscious, not only of 
manhood, but of my own individual manhood. 
And I have a fancy, before expressed, that the 
world does not contain a more dangerous man 
than one who has been afraid and has sur- 
mounted the fear. 

So I made up my mind to tackle whatever 
might be lurking behind that door, and nothing I 
could imagine would, at that moment, have in- 
duced me to open a window and yelp for assist- 
ance. I almost rejoiced to think that the girl was 
too unstrung to think of such a thing; I felt I 
could crack a dozen of their heads against the 
wall, as a cook cracks eggs against a plate. It 
was a good moment; and I seemed to hear a sort 
of wild song singing in my head, and its refrain 
was “Rejoice, O young man, in thy strength !” 

The girl came back as I was taking off my 
coat. I took the torch from her, and went forward 
to the door. 

Passing the little circle of light it made across 
the broad superficies, I could distinguish nothing 
at all. I looked first at the hinges. Almost al- 
ways it is easier to break into a house by oper- 
ating on the hinges than by bothering with pick- 


94 


STEALTHY TERROR 


locks, or running risks with false keys. I had this 
information from a notorious burglar whom I 
attended in Aberdeen Infirmary, when he broke 
his leg in one of his unproductive ventures. He 
gave me the information, he said, as being of 
more value than a fee — to which, by the way, I 
had no claim. For, as he explained, grinning, to 
save expense modern builders fasten their hinges 
to a thin strip of wood nailed to the wall, and a 
very little pressure with the perfect purchase 
which the wall itself affords will remove this slip 
of wood, and the hinges and the door. But no 
such danger lay here, for this door was so heavy 
that the hinges had had to be sunk in the solid 
walls. It was a good door, of which the maker 
had no cause to be ashamed. And the strength 
of that chain was enough to resist any purchase 
that could be brought to bear on it. 

Switching off the torch I got my ear on the 
door, and found that the noise came from a par- 
ticular spot less than half-way up. 

It seemed to me they were cutting a hole at 
the very bottom of the upper panel. A hole the 
size of a man’s hand would be sufficient to per- 
mit them to take the chain off; but though a 
chain is a far stiffer problem than a lock there 
would still remain the lock. But was the door 
locked? It is a simple business to unlock any 
door from the outside when the key is left in it: 
it only requires a special pair of pincers. But the 
key was not in it, yet, stay — perhaps it had been 


STEALTHY TERROR 


95 


turned before the key was removed. I dared not 
examine the lock with the torch so close to the 
keyhole, and my fingers gave me no information 
as to whether the tongue of the lock was still 
shot. Anyway, it did not matter a great deal, 
for my plan of action was now thought out. This 
stealthy attack was necessary for them. They 
thought I would, if I heard them, throw up the 
window and call for help. Chivalrous Ger- 
many! Well, it was good for me that such was 
their reasoning as to the probable conduct a gen- 
tleman was likely to follow. 

I needed a length of good strong rope and a 
bell. The first Miss Thompson supplied from 
her travelling trunk. 

“Now I need some one who is quick-handed 
and smart,” I said. 

“Are you going to keep them out?” 

I took her back into the room while I was 
making a noose at one end of the rope. 

“I am going to put this on one of them.” 

She clasped her hands tremulously. 

“Are you going to hang anyone?” she whis- 
pered. 

“We’ll see,” I said grimly. “And now, the 
bell. What I want if possible is a bell you wind 
up, the kind that rings with a spring. No other 
will do.” 

By good luck there was such a one in the 
house, one of those bells for the table; this 
one big and in the shape of a tortoise. It was 


9 6 STEALTHY TERROR 

rung by pressing down either the head or the 
tail. 

“Now I’ll tell you what you must do.” 

“Oh, do not look at me so fiercely!” she 
cried. 

I took firm hold of her. 

“Miss Thompson, attend to what I say quietly. 
I want you to take this torch and stand by me 
in the hall with your foot against mine. You 
will hold the torch in the position I show you, 
and when you feel me press your foot you will 
throw on the light. Is that clear? That’s all 
you have to do till you next hear my voice. Till 
then whatever you see and hear you must make 
no outcry, not a sound, mind.” 

She drew herself together with an effort. 

“Yes,” she said simply, and tried to smile. 

We went out into the dark hall, close up to 
the door, and I put her with the torch in posi- 
tion. She trembled a little. I passed the other 
end of the rope round one of the two pillars that 
made an ornamental arch in the hall, fastening 
it securely. Then I came back beside her. So 
we waited. 

It was awful waiting there in the dark, but 
worse for her. I knew what was about to hap- 
pen; she did not. Her hand came out seeking 
for me. This was not included in my instruc- 
tions, but I could not help giving it a reassuring 
squeeze. She returned the pressure gently, and 
released my hand. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


97 

So the clock ticked on, and the soft whining 
sound came through the door. 

At last, after what seemed an eternity, my 
ear warned me that the moment was at hand. 
I thought I knew exactly what course events 
would take. There came a little rending sound, 
and then silence. This troubled me, for accord- 
ing to my calculations, the disc of wood ought 
to have fallen on the floor, and it was for the 
sound of this I waited. But there was no sound. 
Yet that which happened next was according to 
anticipations. A long spear of light shone 
through the circular aperture, moving this way 
and that, from side to side, and up and down, 
and reaching to the far end of the hall. Behind 
me I heard Miss Thompson’s involuntary catch 
of breath, and perhaps in two minutes the light 
was withdrawn and we were in the dark again. 
This was the critical moment for which I was 
waiting: one second too soon or too late would 
ruin all. The instant the light disappeared I 
faced the aperture, and at once heard the sound 
for which I waited, the slight brushing sound of 
bare flesh against the sawn wood of the round 
hole. My foot went out to the girl’s, quickly 
and softly, and the flash of her torch which fol- 
lowed let my straining eyes see a long, dirty, 
sinewy and hairy arm feeling its way towards the 
chain. It filled the aperture so that our light was 
not seen. I had time to slip the noose on to it, 
but I had to be quick with the pull. A startled, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


98 

strangled scream, from the other side of the 
door, rent the silence asunder, as I pulled tight, 
and a wild jerk on the rope followed that nearly 
pulled me off my feet. 

“Now!” I shouted to Miss Thompson, and 
together we had him safe. 

Pulling the right arm up to the shoulder, I 
fastened the rope tight round the pillar, and then 
saw the arm protruding straight and taut into 
the hall. The man kicked and bumped against 
the door, and four or five voices jabbered ques- 
tions at him. 

It was time to bring my bell into action. I 
gave three sharp rings. 

“Are you there, are you there?” “Ah!” 
“British Legation. Please. Thank you!” 

A silence fell, and the voices of our enemies 
ceased. I heard them listening. 

Miss Thompson’s curiosity mastered her fear. 
She came close to me. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. 

“Calling for help,” I answered quietly. 

“But — but — that will not bring any help to 
us,” she stammered. 

Then she turned the torchlight full on my face, 
scanning me, evidently thinking I had become de- 
mented. 

“The last thing I want to do is to bring any 
help here,” I answered. 

“But ” she said uncertainly, and the light 

began to shake and quiver in her hand. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


99 


“Put that light out,” I said peremptorily, not 
thinking at all, at the time, how this must con- 
firm her fear that I had gone mad. 

She obeyed. Then I again began to ring the 
bell. 

“That the British Legation?” . . . “Can 
you send at once to Gorlitzer Platz, No. 7. 
Important papers. No, can’t wait. Men out- 
side trying to force entrance.” . . . “Yes! 
Imperative! Motor . . . Very good. . . . Yes. 
. . . Oh yes!” . . . “Oh yes, rather! I 
can certainly hold out for that time. Thank 
you.” 

I began to whistle cheerfully. Somewhere in 
a room close by, I heard the sound of a girl’s 
muffled sobbing — only sub-consciously, for my 
real hearing was given to the other side of that 
door. The man we had trussed up no longer 
screamed; but through his dull moans I could 
hear the hurried whispering. Then there was a 
queer, muffled noise. A little after a quick tap, 
tap, tapping, as of many feet descending the stair- 
case, and dying gradually away. 

I threw aside the curtains from the big win- 
dow in the front. It was full day and people 
were astir. Opposite I saw a baker, with his 
morning bread, passing from house to house. 
Men on their way to work took a diagonal course 
across the square, in groups of twos and threes. 
A milk cart rattled on the cobbles below. 

When I was sure the course was clear I went 


IOO 


STEALTHY TERROR 


back to secure my captive. I had not much to 
offer him in the way of pity. Still, he had re- 
ceived a shock that had sent him into a funk, a 
craven fellow I thought, quite ready to stick a 
knife into another, but squealing with fear when 
caught himself. It was a grim satisfaction to 
me to think I had caught one of them. As I 
looked at his arm protruding through the door, 
however, I recognised that there was a mighty 
stiff strain on it, and that one could not occupy 
the position he was in, pulled tight up against 
the door, without very soon suffering an agony 
that was real enough. Arming myself with the 
poker, I did not anticipate that there would be 
much fight left in him. It would be quite easy 
to use the rope and twist it round his arm and 
legs, and put him through a leisurely cross-ex- 
amination. So I removed the chain and opened 
the door. 

I was surprised at the amount of pressure put 
upon it from the other side. For one wild mo- 
ment I thought the gang had simply taken a leaf 
out of my own book and given me an imita- 
tion of the sound of feet descending a stair, while 
remaining to pounce on me, the moment I was 
incautious enough to open the door for them. 
But no, that was not the pressure. It was the 
weight of the man I had caught, and his weight 
jerked the door from my hand. He fell head- 
long into the hall. 

His throat was cut from ear to ear. 


CHAPTER V 


H OW long I stood looking down at the 
body I don’t know. The man lay 
sprawling on his back, the bare arm 
that was still tied by the rope held up in the air, 
as if in protest or surprise at the injustice or 
suddenness of his end. He was a short, thick- 
set man, very bald, with a dark brown beard. I 
had never seen him before. There was a signifi- 
cance about this body that it took me some time 
to understand. Hitherto I had been made aware 
of the fact that these men were ready enough to 
take the lives of any who opposed them. Now 
it was being made plain to me that they were 
ready, in certain circumstances, to sacrifice the 
lives of those who helped them. They feared 
this man might be made to speak! 

I knew at what moment his death took place: 
it was when they heard me call up the British 
Embassy. They were afraid of it! It was 
strange and awful to think that my ring on that 
old tortoise bell, a bell that had been innocently 
fashioned to bring some one’s dinner, had at last 
suddenly summoned death to this man. Well 
indeed might he retain that arm extended in an 

IOI 


102 


STEALTHY TERROR 


attitude of ludicrous amazement. I wondered 
what he could have told me! Well, they had 
sealed his lips fast enough, and permanently. 

Of course he told me that this packet they 
sought did not hold the product of any mere 
vulgar burglary or forgery: it had to do with 
some matter of high international politics. I had 
been lucky with my mention of the British Em- 
bassy; it had sent every rapscallion of them into 
headlong flight. 

But for how long? Cutting the rope, I shut 
and bolted the door. They would soon see that 
no one came to my aid. And I did not dream 
that, even in broad daylight, they would permit 
me to walk up the steps of the British Embassy 
with these papers in my pocket. Perhaps, too, 
they were mere underlings, these fellows who had 
attacked the door, and had gone away for bigger 
people, or new instructions. 

Had I been by myself I would of course have 
cleared out of the house on the instant; but there 
was Miss Thompson to consider, and this body. 
What sort of a man would he be who would 
yield to the temptation to seize the favourable 
moment, open the door, slip out quietly, and 
vanish? And, later, the girl would come out of 
that room into which she had locked herself, and 
finding me gone would come on that lying there. 
The thought roused me to action. She must not 
find the body there when she came out. Here 
was something to be done ! There was a cup- 


STEALTHY TERROR 


103 


board in the hall, and with little difficulty I got 
the body of the stranger inside, covering it with 
the rug on which he had fallen. So far, so good. 
Then I went and knocked at the closed door. It 
was quite quiet within. 

“Miss Thompson l” I called. 

She thought, then, I had gone crazy when I 
played that bedlam-like game with the imaginary 
telephone. Perhaps, if she had been a little more 
clear-headed than one could justly expect after 
her experiences of the night, she would have seen 
a method in my madness. As it happened, how- 
ever, it was very well that she had been out of 
the way. 

“Miss Thompson!” I called again, tapping 
more loudly, and putting on my most matter-of- 
fact tone. “Will you tell me where I can find 
something to drink?” 

There was no response for a little. But I 
suppose she argued with herself that it was a 
sign of sanity to ask for something to drink, just 
as it would have been a sign of insanity had I 
called through the door for a hatchet. Anyway 
I heard the bed creak as the girl got up and came 
to the door. 

“You are alive?” 

“Rather!” I called back. “And they’ve all 
cleared off. Pretended to telephone to the Brit- 
ish Embassy you know; that did it.” 

She unlocked the door and showed me a white, 
tear-stained face. 


104 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“I thought you were ” she hesitated. 

“Dead?” I suggested. “No, I take a lot of 
killing.” She shuddered. “What I want at the 
moment is a thing I have never set much store 
by, and one I never thought I could wish for so 
much.” Her eyes opened inquiringly — the in- 
fallible way to lift any woman out of her own 
trouble is to ask her to help you with yours — 
“Just a glass of Scotch whisky.” 

“Would cognac do?” she asked doubtfully. 

“Fine !” I replied, clapping my hands. 

So she hunted out a bottle, and after much 
persuasion had some of it herself. The colour 
came back to her face, the little she had, and the 
courage to her heart, and of that she had much. 

For you see I’m not pretending that the girl 
was anything superhuman, as she would need to 
have been to have kept her courage up, and she 
standing between a madman and a set of bloody 
murderers. 

“It is good,” said Miss Thompson. 

She alluded to the cognac; for I was pouring 
myself out another helping. 

“It is so,” I agreed. “There’s maybe not the 
inspiration in it that there is in good whisky; 
still I cannot say that I have found it unsugges- 
tive.” 

Perhaps she thought this incoherent, and 
rather wild, for there was a trace of anxiety in 
her glance. I made haste to reassure her by lay- 
ing my hand on hers across the table, and found 


STEALTHY TERROR 


105 

that this act was rather worse than the word. 
She withdrew her hand, alarmed. 

“Oh, Miss Thompson, I am neither mad 
nor drunk,” I blurted out. “It’s just — it’s just 
that I’ve seen a way by which possibly, mind 
you I say possibly, not probably, much less cer- 
tainly, you and I may get out of this hole we’re 
in.” 

“I am in?” she asked. 

“I am sorry to say it, and sorrier still that it 
should be through me; but it is true. You can- 
not stay on in this house. It is a marked place 
now, and your life would not be safe.” 

She thought awhile. 

“I don’t think I could stay on in it after this 
night alone, but I have friends who will take me 
in. When you are safely away I’ll shut up the 
house and go to them.” 

I shook my head. 

“To be quite frank I doubt if you’ll be safe 
in this country for a while.” 

She was taken aback at that. 

“Surely,” she said, “that is too much.” 

“Indeed, I fear it is not,” I said gravely. 
“And to me it is so sure a thing that, to save 
time, of which, I suspect, we have but little to 
spare, I may as well tell you that unless you go 
with me I will not go at all. If I have, without 
wishing it, brought you into danger, the least I 
can do is to get you out of it, and see you safely 
to your own country.” 


10 6 STEALTHY TERROR 

She thought for a time over this, her elbows 
on the table. 

“Well,” she said at length, “in any case I was 
going home for the summer in three weeks.” 

“Capital!” I cried. “That settles it, and the 
sooner the better.” 

She went away at once. 

There was still one more difficulty before me. 
What was I to do with the dead man? It was 
not only that the thought of leaving him in that 
cupboard revolted me, blackguard as I had good 
reason to believe him to be. It was not even the 
consideration of the unfairness of such a proceed- 
ing to the absent tenants of the flat; much more 
it was the thought of the hue and cry that would 
be raised after the suddenly departed girl, when 
the tenant came back, and found the grisly oc- 
cupant of the cupboard, on going to hang up his 
hat. Miss Thompson returned while I was still 
busy with these thoughts. She was dressed for 
travelling, and carried a hand-bag and a pair of 
boots. 

“Try them on while I search for a hat for 
you,” she said. 

I stared at her, fingering my glass. 

“So you think there is nothing to do but to 
get up and walk straight out into the street?” 

“What else is there to do?” she asked, sur- 
prised. 

“It isn’t that I have no money ” I began, 

blushing. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


107 


She interrupted hastily: 

“I have over twenty pounds in this bag.” 

So like a woman that, to keep all her money 
in the house! And how much reason I had to 
bless her for it! 

“It isn’t only that,” I answered; “great as that 
is. These men will move heaven and earth to 
get the papers I have. No doubt I could walk 
out, but I should not walk far, and at any rate 
would never get away. They will follow me 
wherever I go, and no man can go on for ever. 
Sooner or later their chance will come, and I 
cannot always surround myself with people even 
in the daylight.” 

“Then, it seems to me you are telling me we 
may as well stay where we are?” 

“Exactly, unless we can throw them off the 
scent for a few hours.” 

“And then?” she said. 

“Get a start for Scotland.” 

“But they will follow you there, won’t 
they?” 

“I am not so sure it would be worth their 
while,” I answered. “Anyway I cannot escape 
them in Germany, for here an Englishman is al- 
ways conspicuous, but there a foreigner is 
even more so; and I could be on my guard 
there.” 

“I see that,” said Miss Thompson. “The po- 
sitions would be reversed.” 

“Precisely so,” I cried. 


108 STEALTHY TERROR 

“But we cannot get safely across the square, 
much less to Scotland.” 

“Can’t we?” I cried — for this was the point 
at which I aimed to bring her — “you forget 
that I told you I had an inspiration a while 
back.” 

Miss Thompson sat down. 

“You know a way out?” 

“I do.” 

“Tell me what it is,” she said simply. “For 
I see it is something you want me to do.” 

Now that was just the mood and the mind to 
which the girl had to be worked up: she had to 
be ready to do what I asked, without questioning 
or suggestions. She had to understand, but 
neither too little nor too much. 

The shops were beginning to open when she 
left, with instructions to spare no expense in pro- 
curing a large strong packing-case, and in getting 
it sent round to the flat as soon as possible. She 
had then to find out a firm of carriers who would 
undertake to call at the address for a heavy pack- 
ing-case at ten o’clock exactly. 

From behind the curtains I watched for the 
arrival of the case, and it came sooner than I 
expected. By the time Miss Thompson returned 
I was nailing it down, and making all secure with 
the rope that had already served me so well. She 
was mightily astonished. 

“I thought you were going to escape in it?” 
she said. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


109 

“No, they would just follow it; a box has 
no legs.” 

“Then it’s just a bluff that you are in the 
box?” 

“A double bluff,” I answered. 

She was curious to know what I had put in 
the box, and I assured her I had taken nothing 
that would be considered of any value. It yet 
wanted some time before the carriers were due 
to arrive, so I passed it by burning one or two 
air-holes with the poker. 

When the men arrived I kept out of sight, and 
before they carried the box downstairs Miss 
Thompson instructed them to leave it at the 
cloak-room, taking a ticket for it if she had not 
arrived there in time to do so herself. In that 
event one of them must wait by the office till 
she, or some one she would send, came to receive 
the ticket. 

When they were gone we shook hands. 

“Mind,” I said to her, “two tickets for Ham- 
burg by the 10.30. If I am not there, you still 
go on. The Gibson boat for Leith leaves at mid- 
night. You understand?”*' 

“Yes,” she answered, “I understand.” And 
she followed the men downstairs. 

Through the spy-hole which, alas, I had cut 
in the Professor’s curtain, I saw the packing-case 
crossing the square, and Miss Thompson a short 
distance behind. This procession seemed to in- 
terest a man on a ladder cleaning windows. I 


no 


STEALTHY TERROR 


saw Him come hastily down and follow it. I gave 
them five minutes’ start by the clock and then 
slipped on the immense waterproof coat the Pro- 
fessor had left behind, and appropriated his um- 
brella also. 

The ease of my exit was almost comical. My 
thoughts on the way to the station were not un- 
pleasant. I was thinking of how the porter 
would, as he stood waiting for the lady, be ap- 
proached by a pleasant-spoken gentleman who 
would explain that the lady was detained un- 
avoidably, and had commissioned him to take pos- 
session of the cloak-room ticket. And I saw 
too, in my imagination, and, had this been a real 
romance, I should have said I beheld it as a fact, 
a motor with a large packing-case, speeding 
rapidly from the railway station, while inside the 
vehicle were two men with evil, gloating faces. 
I pictured them carrying that case into some hor- 
rid habitation of their own where Death could 
be meted out in safety. And I saw their faces 
when the lid was rent open, and they came on 
the calm upturned face of the unexpected occu- 
pant. 

There was something in this that satisfied me. 
They had passed a dead man into my hands in 
compromising circumstances. It seemed certain 
that, sooner or later, Miss Thompson and I 
would be incriminated. Well, I had turned 
what was intended to be an incriminating incu- 
bus into a means of escape, and after it had 


STEALTHY TERROR 


hi 


served this purpose had returned it into their 
eager hands. 

Best of all Miss Thompson did not dream of 
its existence. 

We travelled to Hamburg in separate com- 
partments, arriving about five o’clock. From 
the station I saw Miss Thompson, according to 
my instructions, take a cab and drive away to 
the Leith steamer. It was much safer for her 
that we should not be seen together. Long be- 
fore this they would be aware of my escape, and 
no doubt were already well on the trail. The 
problem that confronted me was to fill in the 
hours that yet lay between the present moment 
and the boat’s departure, which was not till 
midnight. It would be no use for me to at- 
tempt going on board now, for I had no doubt 
that, by this time, the police had been notified, 
and I should simply be taken off the boat on a 
warrant for alleged complicity in the Keppel- 
strasse affair. I must make an attempt to dis- 
cover whether the police were in it or no before 
risking myself. There was another train from 
Berlin due to arrive at 8.30, and I judged that 
it would arrive with a party of anxious search- 
ers. 

I sought out a cafe in an obscure part of the 
town, and there I made a good meal in a very 
leisurely fashion. I put in another hour or two 
with coffee and the newspapers and a pipe. Peo- 
ple came in and went out again; but I sat on, 


1 12 


STEALTHY TERROR 


and no one gave any heed to me. Still, the in- 
action was horribly irksome, and the thought that 
all the while my enemies might be spreading their 
net throughout that dirty city was one that did 
not conduce to restfulness. I would have given 
much to have filled in the time with an exam- 
ination of Henschel’s papers; but in that place 
it would have been extremely dangerous, and I 
forbore. 

Shortly before eight the tedium became in- 
supportable, and I had to get up and do some- 
thing. It was a very rash thing that I did, but, 
as it was raining heavily and I had the Pro- 
fessor’s voluminous coat and umbrella to hide in, 
I thought I might have a look at the arrival of 
the Berlin train. A great many people were 
waiting at the barrier, so perhaps the risk was 
not much. I, however, got no information, for 
I saw no one that I recognised. What I did get 
was a big fright. It came about in this way. 
From my place in the crowd I saw, against the 
barrier, a well-dressed portly man whose broad 
face seemed somehow familiar. I puzzled my 
memory, and before the arrival for whom he was 
waiting had emerged I had placed him. 

He was unknown to me, but bore a resem- 
blance to Baron von Bieberstein, whose portrait 
had struck me, when it was published in the 
papers after the Baron’s sudden death in London. 
But it wasn’t that that gave me the fright. It 
was a laugh I heard. Do what I could, it was 


STEALTHY TERROR 


ii3 

impossible to see from whom it came, the crowd 
was too dense. It was from some one the man 
I had noticed met; I could not believe that De- 
winski had recovered so soon. The uncertainty 
shook me a little. It must be something ex- 
traordinarily good to force a laugh from him; 
for though he might have recovered sufficiently 
to travel I was fairly sure he did not feel well 
enough to laugh lightly. That laugh irritated 
and discomfited me. I wondered if it had 
anything to do with Miss Thompson. What had 
been happening during all these hours? For a 
while I wandered aimlessly about, a prey to dis- 
quietude. 

When it was dusk I made my way towards 
the river, and the long dock at the end of which 
the Fenella was berthed. The rain was still fall- 
ing steadily, and the heavy surcharged clouds that 
overhung the city promised that the night would 
be both dark and wet. There was a line of rail- 
way on one side of the quay, and a long string 
of idle trucks. When it was dark enough, I 
climbed into one of them. Each waggon seemed 
to have a tarpaulin cover folded ready on the 
floor, prepared for the unloading of some ex- 
pected vessel. I was glad enough to draw a 
few folds of one of these over me for shelter. 
An occasional cab went by, and now and then 
footsteps approached from the direction of the 
city and passed on. It was not till I had been 
some time sheltering there that I made the dis- 


1 14 STEALTHY TERROR 

covery that all traffic was being stopped further 
down. 

At first I gave little heed to this, knowing 
that it was the practice to fling a temporary bar- 
rier across the quay and make intending passen- 
gers show their tickets. Nevertheless, I judged 
it might be wise to get a closer look, and so, 
when it was completely dark, I stole from wag- 
gon to waggon until I was fairly over the bar- 
rier of white-painted hurdles. In the last wag- 
gon I crouched down and listened. For a long 
while I heard nothing but the “plip-plop” the 
water made against the quay, and the patter of 
the rain upon the tarpaulin. Venturing to look 
over the side of the waggon, I saw below me, 
in the light of the storm-lantern that was swing- 
ing in the wind, a little shelter-office on small 
wheels. By and by I heard the rumble of a cab. 
The occupants, a stout, choleric gentleman and 
his wife, were very angry at being stopped at 
the barrier. He was evidently a person of some 
consequence, well known to the officials, who 
were almost deferential in their bearing towards 
him. 

“What the devil does this mean, eh?” he 
asked. 

“It is the order, sir.” 

“Can I not guess that! Do you suppose I 
took this for a whim of yours?” 

At this point some one seemed to step up 
close to the old fellow, and say something to him 


STEALTHY TERROR 


ll S 

in low tones. I could not possibly catch what 
passed, but whatever it was it silenced protest. 
It can be imagined how sorry I was to miss what 
was said. Still, I did hear something. The old 
gentleman appeared to have passed through the 
narrow wicket, and before going on made this 
comment. 

“Curious affair that! Was reading about it 
in the train. Well, I hope you will catch him. 
Good night, officer.” 

“Good night, sir.” 

Then the old gentleman passed on ; the officials 
retired to their shelter; and the bleak, wind-swept 
quay was silent once more, save for the lapping 
water and the pattering rain. 

I lay half covered by the sheet for some time. 
If they could mention the hunt after me in this 
semi-public fashion, the one sure inference to be 
drawn was that some personage of high political 
importance had arranged matters with the police. 
My little business was assuredly going to be con- 
nected with the mysterious affair in the Keppel- 
strasse! Enlightenment broke on me. I could 
see it all, down even to the brief notice that would 
appear in the Tageblatt to-morrow. They did not 
in the least desire to arrest me in Berlin: they 
desired, and meant, to arrest me on this dark, 
lonely, rain-swept quay. And the notice that 
would appear in the newspaper would run : 


ii 6 STEALTHY TERROR 

“The Strange Affair in the Keppelstrasse. 

“Some new light on this mysterious affair 
comes to hand in the report that reaches us of 
the arrest of a young Englishman, at Hamburg, 
last night. This man was known to be connected 
with the event, and was arrested on the quay, 
when on the point of joining the boat due to leave 
for England at midnight. The man, though 
cleverly disguised, was unable to escape the vig- 
ilance of the police. What strengthened the pre- 
sumption of his guilt is the fact that he made 
a most desperate resistance, and being a man of 
powerful physique succeeded in momentarily free- 
ing himself, jumping over the edge of the quay 
in an attempt to escape. Despite prompt and 
diligent search no trace of him could be discov- 
ered, and he is presumed to have been 
drowned.” 

And that would be all! No, it wouldn’t! A 
day or so later there would be this: 

“The Mysterious Affair at the Keppel- 
strasse. 

“The body of the young Englishman, whose 
arrest and attempted escape were recorded in our 
columns, was yesterday discovered in the dock at 
Hamburg. There was a large contused wound 
on the head, which, it is presumed, was received 


STEALTHY TERROR 


117 

from his coming into contact with the dock wall 
in his leap for liberty, and which accounts for the 
fact that no trace of him could be found in the 
search that immediately followed his escape. It 
is regretted that his death is likely to deprive the 
general public of any further light on a strange 
affair that roused considerable interest and curi- 
osity.” 

Then the case would be closed, and then they 
would be satisfied. There was a neatness in the 
grim humour of it that was not without its appeal 
to my nature; and I could not but admit that 
if they succeeded, it would be quite as well 
rounded off, and poetic, as my own work in get- 
ting them to steal the packing-case that held the 
witness to their crime. As a mental satisfaction 
it would indeed be better, since with them would 
be the last word. 

It may seem strange to some that such thoughts 
should occupy me as I lay in a damp waggon on 
the Hamburg quay. I can only say that I did so 
think. What, however, I saw as I lay there, with 
the rain gathering in little lochs on the sheet above 
me, was that I must be up and doing if I would 
escape this obituary renown. 

I crawled my way back over the waggons. 
Once I almost jumped and ran for it when my 
foot slipped on a rain-sodden buffer and sent an 
iron coupling swinging noisily. Crouching low, 
I waited; but either they never heard or else took 


STEALTHY TERROR 


118 

it for the swing of their own lantern, and none 
came out to see. When I judged it safe, I got 
down from the trucks and in the end reached the 
streets. There were few people about on such 
a night. The quarter of the town in which I 
found myself was of a kind that belongs to all big 
seaports, mean streets of cheap lodging-houses, 
small-windowed, narrow-doored shops, changers 
of foreign money, chandlery, post-cards and curi- 
os, and a multitude of beer-houses, frequented by 
sailors from under every flag that sails the seas. 

The small shops were mostly closed now, but 
the beerhouses were in full swing, noisy ai|J 
bright with lights that made the wet pavement 
glisten like glass. As I was passing one of them 
I heard a voice in full uproarious song. All 
around, there were many such voices, only of bet- 
ter quality, mostly, than the particular voice that 
caught my ear. It was in fact the words that 
stopped me: 

“Gae bring to me a pint of wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie. 

“The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith, 

Fu’ loud the wind blows frae the ferry. 

The shouts of war are heard afar, 

And I must leave my bonnie Mary.” 


Heavens 1 How the words of that song chimed 
to the thoughts that echoed in my head. The 
pier o’ Leith! Ay, that was it; but would I 


STEALTHY TERROR 


119 

ever see it? Out there in the dark, at the end 
of the quay wall, lay the boat that would carry 
me safe enough; but between me and that home- 
like boat there was just the narrow line of white- 
painted hurdle across which I could see no way 
at all. And, standing there with water tumbling 
noisily on the pavement from the overflowing gut- 
ters on the house-roofs, it was strange how that 
most drunken and untuneful voice within should 
fill me with such a feeling of home-sickness as 
touched the point of desolation. I am ashamed 
to say it, but for a moment I was almost un- 
manned. 

“Damn the fellow!” I cried angrily, moving 
on out of ear-shot. 

And certainly it was no proper emotion to in- 
dulge in, in view of the job yet before me. But 
when I got my breath again I began to wonder 
whether, perhaps, chance had not thrown some- 
thing useful in my way. It might be that the 
songster was one of the hands of the Fenella 
of Leith. At any rate he was a countryman of 
mine, and must be off some English boat. At 
the worst I could get a letter or a message 
through to Miss Thompson, and — well, others. 
It was worth trying. He could cross that barrier 
if I could not! 

I ran back lest I should be too late and the 
man be gone, fearful, too, that I might fail to 
identify the particular house among its many fel- 
lows. The last fear, at least, was groundless; 


120 


STEALTHY TERROR 


for, while yet afar off, I could distinguish the 
rough voice that was now become dulcet to my 
changed ear. I swung the door open, letting out 
a sudden babel of mingled voices. Now what I 
had pictured to myself was a rough deck-hand, 
in the midst of companions like himself, equally 
making merry with their shore-leave; and I was 
wondering how I might detach one of them, so 
as to secure his private ear. But I saw when 
I entered that though many men were seated 
round little tables, talking, drinking, and laughing 
together, the man with the song sat at a table 
alone. At first I put it down to the quality of his 
voice. Soon I came to know the true cause. As 
I stood inside the door for a moment, dazzled by 
the bright lights, and with the rain dripping from 
my big coat on to the sawdust floor, an unseen 
clock, after a preliminary flourish of rippling 
chimes, solemnly ladled out ten strokes. 


CHAPTER VI 

T HE man who was singing all by himself 
paid not the slightest attention to me as 
I sat down at his table. He was a 
powerfully-built fellow clad in blue dungarees, 
fresh-complexioned and square-jawed. The hair 
on which his leather peaked cap lay tilted up was 
red. 

“You seem to be very happy,” I said, as I 
gave my order and filled my pipe. 

He looked me up and down with a truculent 
eye. 

“Ay,” he said. “What makes you think so?” 
“You were singing just now.” 

“Singing?” he cried. “What has that got to 
do wi’ it? As a matter o’ fact I was mourn- 
in’. ” 

“Indeed,” I answered in surprise. “May I 
ask for what, or whom?” 

He began fingering in his waistcoat pocket and 
drew out a short, and very dirty clay pipe, which 
he pointed at me, as he felt elsewhere for a 
match. 

“Sir,” he said, with a ludicrous air of dignity, 
121 


122 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“you will pardon me, but it is not habitual with 
Scotsmen to be noisy about their private feelings ; 
nor,” he added, holding out the burning match, 
“to discuss them with comparative strangers.” 

So saying, he canted his head on one side so 
that his nose might avoid contact with the bowl 
of his pipe, and sent the lighted match bobbing 
up and down with the vigour of his suction. I 
had got hold of a character. The rebuke he ad- 
ministered was mollified by the fact that he was, 
at least, prepared to accept me as only a com- 
parative stranger. A little wariness would cer- 
tainly be necessary: that red hair did not belie a 
fiery disposition. 

“I am Scotch myself,” I said, “and I hope it 
will be a long day before the sympathy of one 
Scot is unwelcome to another.” 

He shoved a mighty fist across the marble- 
topped table. 

“Put it there!” he cried. 

So I put it there, and we shook on it. 

When the usual toasts had been duly honoured, 
I made haste with the talk, at first only that he 
might not get too hazy in the head to carry my 
message, but soon for his own sake, as I came to 
like Alec Duff, for so he told me he was called. 

“You were saying you were mourning,” I 
prompted him. 

‘Ay, so I was, that was over the case of poor 
Geordie Anderson.” 

“A sailor, like yourself, from the Fenella?” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


123 


“A sailor!” he said, in a meditative, argumen- 
tative tone. “Dod ! it’s hard to tell what a sailor 
is nowadays. You might call me, who am a 
stoker, and never sets an eye on the sea, a sailor, 
for it’s the engines that sail the boat; and you 
might deny that Geordie, who is a deckhand, is 
a sailor, for deck-hands are just stewards’ as- 
sistants in stormy weather, as I often tell him.” 

“Has he had an accident?” I pushed on. 

Duff withdrew his pipe. 

“No just what ye could call an accident,” he 
said. “But nevertheless he’s up there in the In- 
firmary the night, and there for a while I’m think- 
ing.” He thrust a thumb mechanically into the 
pipe. “Look here,” he went on, “I must be go- 
ing in a wee, and I’d best tell ye the story straight 
off the reel. It was like this.” 

“Is it a long story?” I asked, for I had 
heard the clock signal the half-hour some time 
back. 

The question brought about a resumption of 
his earlier stateliness of manner and diction. 

“My stories,” he said, “are of no specially 
fixed length, but are adaptable to the precise 
amount of intelligence observable in them that 
listen.” 

When I had repaired my blunder he cleared 
his throat and was about to resume, but brought 
up suddenly on seeing the paper and ink laid out 
before me. They were for the note I intended 
he should carry to Miss Thompson. 


124 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Ye’re no purposing to take down what I say 
so as to use it against me hereafter?” he asked 
suspiciously. 

I was really beginning to feel on tenter- 
hooks. 

“No, no!” I assured him. “It’s just a short 
note in a hurry. I’ll tell you all about it after- 
wards. I can hear you while I scribble.” 

“Well,” he nodded, “it was like this. Me and 
Anderson set out this morning wi’ every intention 
o’ spending the day in decency. Geordie was 
most particular about it, and to me the notion was 
at least a change; but now, looking back, I can 
see that somehow the idea was not equally agree- 
able to the mind of Providence. But poor An- 
derson was fair set on peace and quietness. No 
sooner had we steppit ashore than he took me by 
the arm, and says he, ‘Alec my man, we’ll just 
make a real, quiet day of it for the sake of vari- 
ety. So mind, nane of your usual cantrips and 
ongoings, my bonnie lad. There’s to be nae 
throwing off of your coat and hat in the middle 
o’ the street and inviting the whole German na- 
tion to come forrit; and,’ says he, ‘if so be as we 
go into any genteel restiraunt ye’re no to dook 
any Dutchman’s face into his broth, just because 
ye don’t like the noisy way he sups it,’ says he, 
‘as ye did last trip in Amsterdam,’ he says. So 
I gave him my hand on it, and meant it too. The 
strange thing is it was Geordie himseP that first 
hit a man the day. We began well by going for 


STEALTHY TERROR 


125 


a jaunt on the top o’ one o’ them cars, sitting 
side by side, quite quiet-like as if we were on the 
way to kirk, and it Sunday. It was na’ our fault 
that we did not keep it up a’ day, I’m telling ye. 
But I never jaloused it wis fated to last for so 
little a time; for the end came very premature, as 
you might say. 

“In keeping wi’ our general demeanour we 
were smoking very genteel, not spitting on the 
floor at all, but always taking care to put it on to 
the street. Well, there were two foreigners sit- 
ting in front of us, each with a long ceegar in his 
mouth, but no’ a match among them. By and 
by one of them says something to us, and I knew 
he was asking for a match. And so I, with my 
new manners, to please Geordie, instead of fol- 
lowing the usual way of handing him one, handed 
him the whole box, wi’ a polite boo. Would 
you believe it, he had no sooner gotten it in his 
hand and looked at it, when he dashed my box 
on the floor, and stamped on it wi’ his heel. It 
fair took me aback. Then he turned blazin’ on 
us. ‘England,’ he said, ‘England — made in 
England!’ And he let out a string of words 
neither Anderson nor me could understand, but 
which sounded like what verra bad language 
should. 

“Well, I was up and drawin’ back my hand to 
get a swing at him that would hae liftit him into 
the street, when wee Anderson clung on to my 
arm cryin’, ‘Alec man, remember your promise!’ 


126 


STEALTHY TERROR 


So I put an effort on myself, and did na’ hit. But 
they stoppit the car, and we were put aff it. Just 
a bit ruffled you understand, but I was na’ 
mindin’ much, because I was that proud at no 
hittin’ the man. 

“So we did not bother about gettin’ on another 
car, but just went for a stroll in the public gar- 
dens, and by the ponds, where the nursery maids 
were teachin’ the infants to throw stones at the 
tame ducks. We sat down on a seat for a smoke, 
but having lost our matches, Anderson went for- 
rit to ask a gentlemen wi’ a tile-hat who was 
watchin’ the nursemaids. Anderson is no 
scholar, of course, and as the man was a for- 
eigner he was hard put to it to tell him what he 
wanted; but he kept on striking the side of his 
pipe, just as if he had a match, for to show him. 
The gentleman looked down on Geordie and be- 
gan to twirl up his moustache. 

“ ‘Englishman?’ he asked, and I saw Geordie 
nod and smile. Then the man gave a snarl like a 
beast, and spat fair in Anderson’s face. Well, it 
was verra comfortin’ to me to see how Ander- 
son’s good manners tumbled off him. He was into 
the big man like a flash, and the collision jumbled 
off his tile-hat, which fell over the railings, and 
rolled down the bank into the water. But I did 
na’ see that at the time, it’s only an inferrence, ye 
ken. I found it there afterwards; for I was 
makin’ towards them when the big man up wi’ his 
stick and laid Anderson oot. He had never seen 


STEALTHY TERROR 


127 

me, and he was lifting his foot to kick Geordie 
where he lay when I got to him.” 

Duff pushed his cap further back and smiled 
softly. 

“What did you do?” I cried, impatient. 

“Do?” he asked. Then he ran up his sleeve 
and showed me his forearm. 

“Look at that!” he cried. 

It was worth looking at. Daily labour with a 
sixteen-foot fire scoop had turned it into steel, and 
the heat of his stoke-hole had sweated every grain 
of fat from his whole body. 

“The nursemaids screeched and ran; and then 
the police came up, and they were both put into 
a cart and taken to the infirmary. He tried to 
keep me off with his stick, ye ken; but there was 
a dodge I got off a fellow on one o’ Allan’s cat- 
tle-boats, Montreal to Glesca’ — verra rough they 
are, even for a Broomielaw greaser.” 

His face glowed. 

“It wis on them boats I learned to hit hard 
and quick. Man, I like to feel my fist come on 
something hard and solid; it’s verra satisfyin’. 
I cannot say,” he continued, “that I had the 
feelin’ wi’ that German, for most Germans are 
fat and soft; it’s just like hittin’ a bolster. Hit- 
tin’ Yankees is better. But no much,” he con- 
cluded gloomily, “for though they’re hard they’re 
very brittle.” 

It was then that I understood why Alexander 
Duff was, in that beer-house of rough men, 


128 


STEALTHY TERROR 


allowed to indulge his musical whims, and was 
accorded, by general consent, a table to himself ! 
I asked him how it was that he escaped arrest. 
He hesitated a little in his answer. 

“Well, ye see,” he replied at length, “there 
wis no one there to notice ; so I let them think it 
was Anderson did it.” 

“What!” I cried. 

A rather sheepish look came over him at the 
exclamation. 

“Ay,” he said, “I allow it looks black. But 
ye see, I thought Geordie wis by wi’ it; and as 
the other was beyond speech, I thought little 
Geordie should have the credit. They’ll both be 
fined,” he added, brightening, “and I’ll pay An- 
derson’s. So he’ll come out of it no worse in 
pocket, and far better in glory.” 

“He’ll get over it all right?” 

“Oh ay, though he gave me a bit fright when 
I saw him in his bed in the Infirmary. He says 
to me, ‘Ye’ll be gettin’ into trouble, Alec, wi’ me 
not there to take care o’ ye.’ I thought the stick 
must have touched his intellect then; for how 
could a wee fellow, the like of him, take care of a 
big man the like of me. Mind ye I was richt 
sorry for to leave him there, especially when they 
gave me what is called his ‘effects,’ which is the 
queer name they give to a sailor’s duds; and 
when I get to the boat they’ll be askin’ where 
little Geordie Anderson is, and that bundle there 
is all I have to show for him. That’s why I’m 


STEALTHY TERROR 


129 


no exactly hurrying back I It’s gey sad, is it no? 
But, man, it wis verra cheerin’, when I wis 
walkin’ away wi’ Anderson’s ‘effects,’ to see the 
other fellow lying there gettin’ dressed by three 
doctors, wi’ what ye might call my ‘effects’ on 
him.” 

It was then that my patience had its reward! 
Minutes were precious to me, but Duff’s tale had 
beguiled me. I scarcely heard anything he said 
after he had pointed to the bundle of clothes that 
lay on the vacant chair by his side. I scarcely 
recognised my own voice, as I put the question: 

“Are those his clothes?” 

Duff laid his hand on them gloomily. 

“Ay, are they,” he said. “There they are, 
where poor Geordie ought by rights to have been, 
and would have been, had we not tried to be 
decent and genteel, and gone meanderin’ in orna- 
mental gardens.” 

He gathered the bundle to him and straight- 
ened his cap, an ominous symptom of immediate 
departure. The clock had struck eleven. 

“Mr. Duff ” I began, “Mr. Duff ” 

and stopped. Could I venture all on a single 
throw ? 

“Well?” said Duff. “That is my name, 
though it’s no verra familiar to me in that form, 
except in times of Parliamentary elections in the 
Leith Burghs.” 

I breathed hard, and took my chance: 

“You yourself know what it is to be in trouble 


130 STEALTHY TERROR 

with the police.” I watched his face with eager- 
ness. 

“Ay, I do! I’ll no deny it; but oftener it’s 
the police that knows what it is to be in trouble 
with me.” 

“Well,” I blurted out and risked all, “the 
fact is — don’t go yet — I’m in trouble with the 
police myself to-night.” 

Duff didn’t sit down again, but he seemed 
slightly interested. 

“Ay, are ye so? Well, it’s a thing verra easy 
done, in any German port. What wis it — playin’ 
on the organ without a licence?” 

I could not guess what special delinquency this 
figure of speech stood for, nor was there time to 
ask. 

“It is for quite a lot of things,” I said. “But 
among them, I have reason to believe there is ag- 
gravated assault on an officer in the execution of 
his duty, a street riot, knocking out a German 
agent, rescue of a prisoner, bilking a cabman, and 
smashing a statue of the Kaiser.” 

Duff sat down and looked up at me, shaking 
his head, at first I thought, in incredulity: 

“We do not honour our great men enough,” 
he said slowly, “an’ that’s a fac’.” 

Imagining he referred to myself, I modestly 
said that he was overrating my achievements. He 
waived me aside. 

“I was not referring to you,” he said, “but to 
that great man Thomas Carlyle.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 13 1 

“Carlyle!” I cried. 

“Ay, just him! Man, it’s wonderful to think 
I’ve listened from my youth up to what he says 
about the folly of judgin’ man by his clothes, and 
now do the verra thing he condemns. Ye ken,” 
he continued, “when ye came in I just judged 
ye by the funny hat ye’ve on, and the fancy cloak 
ye’re wearin’.” 

“Oh, that doesn’t matter ” I was begin- 

ning. 

“Ah! but it does,” Duff interrupted. “I did 
ye a great injustice judgin’ ye so.” 

“What did you take me for?” 

“Well, the fact is that in them clothes I just, 
took ye for a bluidy organ-grinder!” 

“Never mind,” I said to him. “I’ll forgive 
you, if you’ll do something for me.” 

“Name it, sir,” said Duff. 

And then I explained to him that I had come 
to escape by the Fenella , on which I had a friend, 
but had found the police on the look out for me 
at the barrier. Would he take a note to my 
friend which would explain that I was unable to 
escape by the boat? 

Mr. Duff became excited immediately. 

“And why can ye no deliver it yersel’?” he 
asked. 

I assured him nothing would be more agree- 
able to me. 

“And why should ye not?” he cried. “There’s 
Geordie’s duds here.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


132 

He lifted up the bundle. That was all I 
wanted. It was for many reasons better that 
the proposal should come from him. 

“Is there time?” I asked. “It’s the half- 
hour.” 

“Plenty,” cried Duff, well pleased at having 
persuaded me, as he thought. “Come on.” 

As we hurried away towards the dock I told 
him of the only fear I had. Anderson was a 
little man; did he think I could get into his 
clothes? Dungaree was cotton, wasn’t it, and 
would not stretch? 

“Havers!” was the reply. “Ye forget Geor- 
die was a sailor, and sailors are not allowed to 
wear dungaree, which is the uniform of the en- 
gineering profession. Sailors wear jerseys, and 
jerseys will stretch.” 

“But the trousers!” 

Duff stopped and looked at me. 

“Do you want to go or not?” he asked. “No 
doubt they’ll be a bit little, still ye may have ob- 
served that sailors are just no verra partickeelar 
about the fit of their trousers, in the merchant 
service anyway. They’ll be a’ richt, so lang as 
ye’ve no occasion to bend.” 

Behind the trucks I changed into Anderson’s 
clothes, Duff standing sentry, though there was 
little need of that as the night was pitch black 
and the rain still falling. The Professor’s coat 
and hat and my own things we dropped into the 
dock. Duff was delighted with my appearance. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


i33 


“Come on noo,” he said. “You and me will 
go bang through like a pair of reciprocating cyl- 
inders.” 

So we pushed forward. There were no signs 
of any passengers proceeding to the vessel; prob- 
ably, according to frequent practice, all were 
aboard early, and already asleep. Ahead of us 
stretched the long row of lamps that marked the 
edge of the quay wall, but gave little light by 
which to walk. Through the squalls of rain 
there came from the distant boat the noise of hiss- 
ing steam, and the hurried rattle of the derrick, 
busy lifting in the heavy goods. 

“Dod,” said Duff at length, “it’ll no do to 
slink up like this, as if we were afraid. We’ll 
just have to tune up, and give them notice of what 
to expect.” 

There was good sense in this suggestion; it 
would prepare their minds before they saw us, to 
believe us to be what we pretended, and we should 
get the readier entrance. Duff chose the song, 
and I joined in. 

“Oh ye’ll tak’ the high road, 

And I’ll tak’ the low road, 

And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.” 

“Just jolly,” Duff warned me. “Not too 
drunken-like.” 

And so we went on, arm in arm, stressing all 
the unimportant syllables, and holding on the 
final notes of each line to a grotesque length, as is 
the manner of street vocalists. 


134 


STEALTHY TERROR 


I dreaded the barrier horribly. 

There was not the slightest difficulty made in 
passing us! Duff, it seemed, was a character 
very well known to the official usually in charge. 
I heard him say something to the others as we 
came up. For all that, there was one ghastly 
moment, which was when a brief scrutiny was 
made of our faces with the help of an uplifted 
lantern. I blinked foolishly into the lantern, 
whistling the song, for whistling does cause dis- 
tortion of features. The lantern was lowered, 
a grunt came from behind it, and we were passed 
through ! 

I heaved a deep sigh of relief. Duff squeezed 
my arm mightily. 

“Sing, ye daft goat,” he whispered. “Sing 
on. Ye’ll make them suspeecious if ye drop it 
like that,” and we both resumed our interrupted 
song. 

“I’ll be in Scotland afore ye — 

Before ye, be — fore ye.” 

Duff roared it out. 

“And I’ll be in Scotland be — fore ye,” 

I shouted back. And most devoutly did I hope 
it! 

When we got round the corner of the sheds 
and offices, there lay the Feneila , with the gang- 
way steeply reaching up her side, and lights 
hurrying to and fro in the last haste of im- 
mediate departure. Once we were on board I 


STEALTHY TERROR 


135 


was very anxious to find out whether Miss 
Thompson was also there. I told Duff, and he 
said it would be easy to get a steward to look 
at the passenger list to see if my sweetheart was 
aboard. And I had to tell him that her name 
would not be entered in the list, and also that the 
lady was not my sweetheart. 

“Well — a well,” he said imperturbably, 
“don’t get so heated. I just wanted to find 
out.” 

He conducted me to the safety of the stoke- 
hole, to reach which we descended innumerable 
iron-runged ladders, amid smells of oil and hot 
metal. Down there I felt in perfect security 
against all search. Duff introduced me to some 
of his mates as one who had to flee the country 
because he had clouted a bobby and bowled over 
Billy the Kayser. 

“A master-piece that,” he remarked. “He’ll 
tell ye all about it afore we see the Bass.” 

We were well into the Firth of Forth before 
I again came on deck. It was, however, a fairly 
easy time I had down there in the bowels of the 
vessel, free from observation, shielded and fed 
by the firemen for the sake of Alexander Duff. 
The same Duff was able, through a steward, to 
set my mind at rest about Miss Thompson; and 
it was one of the many kindnesses he showed 
me for which I was most grateful. He saw my 
early uneasiness, guessed at its cause, and ob- 
tained the information by some lie or other, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


136 

without telling me what he was about, and then 
broke the welcome news in characteristic fashion. 
He would persist in calling her my sweet- 
heart. 

“Ay,” he said suddenly, apropos of nothing, 
“about that Miss Johnston?” 

“What Miss Johnston?” 

“Johnston — that’s your sweetheart’s name, 
isn’t it, or is it Thompson? I’m no verra good 
at distinguishing niceties o’ sound which are so 
near to each other.” 

That was true enough, as anyone would under- 
stand who had ever heard him sing, but I was 
too startled to tell him so then. 

“What about her?” 

“Man, man, ye need na’ just roar at me. 
The fact is I asked Long Willie if he had gotten 
her aboard, and he said he had one of that de- 
scription.” 

“You never saw her, so how could you describe 
her?” 

“I descr bit her by her name, of course,” an- 
swered Duff. 

“What name did you use, Johnston or Thomp- 
son?” 

He scratched his head in a sham perplexity. 

“Deed, I’m no richtly sure,” he answered, grin- 
ning with his black face. And then seeing I was 
really vexed, relented: “It’s a’ richt; I was only 
jokin’. The lassie’s up there above your head, 
safe and sound.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


137 


When we ran into the pier o’ Leith, and 
there was the usual great anxiety among the 
passengers to be the first ashore, I made my way 
up the iron-runged ladders and on to the deck. 
Soon I discovered Miss Thompson sitting by 
herself, waiting patiently, clear of the struggle. 
She did not recognise me as I sat down beside 
her, and stared in alarm at my grin. It was 
then I saw there were tears in her eyes, which 
astonished me, since she was coming home, and 
not leaving. Suddenly she recognised me, and 
out went her hand on my breast, and she just 
staring and never saying a word. It was curious, 
for I just looked back, and said nothing either, 
which was not at all as I had pictured the thing 
beforehand. But I very soon got up: it was 
the height of unwisdom to draw attention to the 
queer fact that here was a stoker on friendly 
terms with a first-class passenger. And of course 
I still had to get ashore — as unobtrusively as 
possible. So I lifted the young lady’s bag, as if 
to carry it down the gangway for a sixpence, as 
so many of the stewards and crew were doing at 
that moment. 

On approaching the gangway, however, where 
the purser stood taking the tickets, that proud offi- 
cial sternly waved me away. 

“Stand back there,” he boomed at me. 
“Stokers are not allowed to handle passengers’ 
luggage.” 

No doubt he took me for a new hand, and 


STEALTHY TERROR 


138 

the small official everywhere dearly loves to make 
a public display of his authority. I was nettled 
perhaps also at the failure of my scheme for get- 
ting ashore, which threatened now to draw atten- 
tion to me, rather than to cloak me from it. This 
made me rash. 

“Who are you calling a stoker ?” I asked. 

I was glad my friend Duff could not hear. The 
man glared at me. 

“You,” he cried. “And none of your lip ! Drop 
that bag and get forward I” t 

I nodded my coal-grimed face at him. 

“Look here, my man,” I said coldly, “I’ll 
have you to know that you are addressing a first- 
class passenger.” The tone of my voice puzzled 
him, and he gaped a bit; but (oh, Thomas Car- 
lyle!) the clothes carried conviction, and he 
sneered out: 

“A first-class passenger, are you? In that case, 
you’ll doubtless be able to show me a first-class 
ticket?” 

The brute glanced for approval of his wit to 
the gold-braided, white-capped, smaller edition of 
himself who stood on the other side of the gang- 
way in the person of the boy clerk; and that 
young sycophant did not fail with his titter. Miss 
Thompson stepped past me holding out the 
ticket. 

“Here it is,” she said simply. 

The man’s jaw dropped; but with the eye of 
his subordinate on him he rallied. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


139 

“Ay, so it is, ay! But where is your own, 
Madam?” 

She put the other ticket into his amazed hand 
without a word, and I followed her down the 
gangway. Glancing back, I saw that the two of- 
ficials were looking from us to each other, and 
from each other to us. At the time, I thought 
this incident merely amusing, and wondered how 
that purser would explain the affair to himself 
and his friends. 

A couple of hours afterwards I met Miss 
Thompson at the Edinburgh British Hotel. The 
interval I had employed in providing myself, by 
the help of a loan from her, with some new 
clothes. A long overdue visit to the barber 
also helped to restore me to my normal appear- 
ance. And in passing the post-office I took the 
opportunity to enter and wire home the news of 
my arrival. Of course I was not going home at 
once. Now that I knew the political importance 
of the papers I carried it was my intention to see 
the girl safely on to the St. Andrews train, and 
then catch the afternoon express for King’s Cross, 
to lay the papers before the authorities at the 
Whitehall Office. I was feeling easy in my mind, 
and modestly satisfied with my achievements. The 
sense of being perpetually pursued, the feelings 
of unrest and suspicion, dropped from me on that 
fine morning, as I sauntered along Princes Street, 
to pass the time that yet remained before I was 
due at the hotel. 


140 


STEALTHY TERROR 


Miss Thompson was already waiting for me 
in the lounge, busy with a time-table. Over our 
food we discussed plans, and I told her of my 
adventures with Alexander Duff, and of the man- 
ner in which he got through the guard set on 
the boat. She told me she had never expected 
to see me again, as it was known on the ship that 
there was a hunt after a man who might attempt 
to escape on the Fenella, and that not only Ham- 
burg but every exit from Germany had that morn- 
ing been warned by the Berlin police. 

“How old are you?” she asked me abruptly, as 
was sometimes her way. 

“Twenty-seven,” I answered. 

“Do you know, I am looking at you for the first 
time !” 

I hadn’t thought of it. Up to this hour she 
had not seen me but as an unshaven, dirty, ragged 
and hunted creature. 

“Well,” I said, “how do you find me — better or 
worse?” 

My tone was light; but she did not repeat it. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You are dif- 
ferent, that is all.” 

But it was not all; and I had the impression 
that this strange girl did not like me to be dif- 
ferent; that somehow she preferred the unkempt 
wastrel to the clean, assured man, now opposite 
her. Women are strange creatures; the best of 
them seem to like us best when they can help us 
most. And the girl sitting there, making a mere 


STEALTHY TERROR 141 

pretence of eating, and hardly glancing my way, 
though we were so soon to part, gave me a curious 
chill as I reflected on the change — her bravery, 
eagerness, and even tenderness for me, in the hour 
of danger; her complete indifference to me, now, 
in the hour of safety! 

I had, however, something that would lift her 
out of that calm aloofness. 

“There’s that packet,” I said casually, when we 
had finished. 

“Well, have you lost it?” 

“No fear!” I answered. “I have risked too 
much to keep it.” 

“That’s all right then,” she said, fiddling with 
some crumbs. 

And I’ll be hanged if she didn’t repress a 
yawn ! 

“Don’t you want to see it?” I cried, amazed, 
as I remembered how eager she had been. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“If you like.” 

If I liked! I couldn’t make this out. It almost 
shocked me. However, I thought to myself, as 
I led the way over to a vacant table that looked 
down on the bridge and the roofs of the station 
beneath, a sight of that mysterious paper will 
soon alter things. For I had made what seemed 
to me to be a mighty safe deduction — that doc- 
uments to regain possession of which every port 
and railway of Germany had been guarded ought 
to be of some significance. 


142 


STEALTHY TERROR 


We sat down at the table and I drew out the 
American cloth packet, and opened it; myself 
eager, she, apparently unconcerned. 

My heavens, it was a surprise! I may say I 
was ready to find anything in that packet from 
German State secrets to American gilt-edged se- 
curities, from a drawing of the latest French dis- 
covery in the science of artillery to a scheme for 
the invasion of England. But that! 

I must have presented a ludicrous spectacle of 
amazed disappointment as I looked up from the 
neatly drawn and crudely coloured figures that 
sprawled over the paper. They were childish 
drawings of beasts and birds and toys, and on the 
paper was inscribed in an unformed hand : 

“Drawn by Little Eitel, for his dear Papa’s 
Birthday — August, 1914.” 

I looked at Miss Thompson. Her indiffer- 
ence was certainly gone. But it was replaced by 
an expression more intolerable — amusement. And 
drawn our way, I suppose, by the expression of 
amazement and chagrin on my face, a waiter 
sauntered, napkin under arm, behind us. Ashamed 
lest he should see the childish thing that engaged 
my attention, I hastily drew the black cover over 
it, saying to him, and in my confusion saying it 
in German: 

“What do you want?” 

“The newspaper, sir,” he said smoothly, in 
the same language, picking up the Scotsman from 
the window seat. 


STEALTHY TERROR 143 

But was that all he wanted? It seemed to 
me that, even as he answered, his bilious eyes 
looked curiously at the black cover of Henschel’s 
packet. As for Miss Thompson, she was frankly 
laughing. 

I almost loathed her. 


CHAPTER VII 

T HE London train, when it left that after- 
noon, left without me. I draw a veil 
over that part of my journey home 
which was made in the company of Miss 
Margarita Thompson. It was full of constraint 
on my part, and as for her, she made many 
attempts, for which I hated her, to be kind. Per- 
haps you can imagine the fool I felt — all these 
alarms and excursions and accompanying mys- 
teries, for what? A little boy’s drawings for his 
dear Papa’s birthday! Miss Thompson never 
once referred to that accursed paper during the 
journey, nor did I, you may be sure; but this 
very silence was eloquent. The one thing I had 
to be thankful for was the opening of the thing 
before I had taken the train to London: it was, 
at least, some comfort that I had not rushed into 
the Whitehall Office. 

When, at last, the train drew up at the junction 
for St. Andrews, and the girl had to change, I am 
afraid the word of thanks that I made myself 
address to her were more cold and formal than I 
could have wished. She had been more than kind, 

144 


STEALTHY TERROR 


H5 


but I had not understood her lately, and though 
the memory of her goodness to me almost made 
me forget, for the moment, yet, when at the last 
I held her hand to say good-bye, I saw her lips 
tremble at the corners, and knew that she found 
it hard to restrain a smile. I could not, of course, 
deny that the affair had its amusing side to others; 
but when the big express moved on and she, 
standing clear of the baggage and passengers, 
waved me farewell, I was glad of every roll of the 
wheels that left her, a little rapidly diminishing 
figure on the platform. 

In the history of the human race there have 
been, indeed, scattered examples of individual old 
men temporarily become ridiculous in the eyes of 
their brothers, who yet did not find the experience 
insupportable; but the young man has never 
existed, who, suddenly and incontestably fallen 
from the heroic to the ridiculous in a woman’s 
eyes, would not find it preferable to be dead. It 
is, of course, a great thing to be alive. I am 
increasingly aware of that. I perceive, too, that 
the fewer the years of life men have left them, the 
fewer become the things for which they would 
willingly die; but at twenty-seven the catalogue 
is still relatively extensive, and perhaps Ridiculous 
to Woman is the last item to go. 

It is hard to say why I didn’t burn that paper 
when I got to my room that night. And anyway 
there was no fire. I tossed it into the empty 
grate. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


146 

In the succeeding days it was a source of un- 
failing delight to me to visit all the places and 
things in the garden and woods which had asso- 
ciations with my boyhood. 

This house, which had been my mother’s 
home ever since my father’s death, stood on the 
foothills of the Grampians, and four miles from 
the railway station, near which also ran the great 
North Road from Perth to Aberdeen. The village 
lay on the road to the station, a little more than 
a mile distant, and our house stood on a side road 
which traversed the glen beyond us, and crossed 
the Grampians into Deeside. The house itself 
was about a hundred and fifty yards from the 
road, facing south, with a little garden in front 
that sloped down to the fields, and it seemed to 
seek shelter against the wild north-west winds, so 
close did it stand to the big wood at the back. 
It was a wild and lonely country-side, very pleas- 
ant in summer, but in winter — and winters in the 
Grampians were long — eerie to a degree. Then, 
when darkness began to fall at about four in the 
afternoon and the frost stiffened the snow on the 
ground so that it “crunched” to one’s tread at 
every step, to come on that house with its dark 
and mysterious background of larches and firs, 
was to receive an impression of remoteness and 
silence that lingered long in the memory. 

Of wild life there was, of course, an abundance ; 
and when one’s remembrances stirred about that 
old place, it was not so much by people, of whom 


STEALTHY TERROR 


147 


there were few, as by the wild things of the for- 
est and moor: black crows in slow flight in the 
gathering dusk over snow, the young deer, no 
bigger than a sheep dog, that came without fear 
about the garden in the early spring, the rabbits 
loping out of the wood in sunny evenings, the 
hen-pheasant with her speckled brood, the 
monotonous note of the wood-doves, of which 
one never tired, the squirrels that chased each 
other with incredible agility, chattering with mirth 
— these, and not people, are what one remembers 
best. 

It was to this life I returned, after, as I thought, 
the very unpleasant chapter in my experiences, 
just recorded, had been closed for ever. And the 
old place at once stirred in me a zest for old and 
half-forgotten things. When I was a boy there 
were times when I looked outward and away from 
the place, to the great world that lay beyond, the 
world of romance and strange adventures, of 
which I had read in books, but never seen, the 
tremendous cities, the soldiers that marched be- 
hind brass bands, going to the wars, the tall 
ships, and sailors with gold-ringed ears and 
swarthy faces, who came from foreign countries. 
But now, I felt that while the wide world was 
still curious, for a while, I could find my own 
home and country-side glorious enough.. 

My mother would have liked nothing better 
than to see me settle down as a general medical 
practitioner in some quiet place, driving my own 


148 


STEALTHY TERROR 


Ford car, and familiar with the names of every 
cottage bairn in the parish. Don’t imagine for a 
moment that I am sneering. The country has no 
class of professional man more worthy of honour 
than that of the medical profession, men who 
are kindly and tolerant invariably, which the 
ministers are sometimes not, often, like the min- 
ister, underpaid but seldom over-valued. But the 
glamour that belongs to the specialist’s side of 
the profession was too strong for me to resist. 
I told her this one day when I was helping her 
in the garden. Perhaps she was a little disap- 
pointed, but she made no remark, and I made 
haste to change the subject. 

“I see you have ‘wired’ the garden,” I said. 

“Yes,” she said, going on with her work. 
“That is for the rabbits; they eat up every- 
thing.” 

“Will it be any good? I saw old Peter Milne, 
the forester, yesterday, and he swears that the 
rabbits are learning to climb.” 

“Nonsense!” she said. 

“He says it’s true. They sunk the netting 
round a nursery of young trees, so as to stop 
them burrowing under, and yet the damage still 
went on, and they could not understand it till 
they set a snare, for a joke, on the top of a gate. 
The next day they had a rabbit in it.” 

“Humph!” she remarked. “In your long 
absence you have forgotten old Peter’s reputa- 
tion.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


149 


It was great fun, too, to roam the old un- 
forgotten ways through the mighty woods. Such 
strangers as did come to our part of the country 
were generally people interested in forestry, for 
ours was one of the few places in which forestry 
was treated as a science; indeed several of the 
foresters had been to Bavaria to study German 
methods. It was one of Peter Milne’s tragedies, 
perhaps the greatest, that he had been thought 
too old to go. What a fund of material he would 
have gathered for his favourite occupation, which, 
after all, was not forestry but romance. The old 
man, however, unlike myself, was wise enough to 
find it in his daily work, in the lonely woods 
where he had been all his life. 

I had been little more than a week at home, 
and was in a fair way towards forgetting the late 
romantic adventures that had ended so ludicrously 
at that table in the Edinburgh hotel, when I was 
startled by an incident that occurred, an incident 
that brought back into my newly ordered and 
serene life that element of the mysterious, of 
which I had lately had more than enough. One 
day, having hunted out an old trout-rod to try 
my hand at the old sport, and the burn being 
very low on account of the long spell of fine 
weather, I had gone away up the glen and fished 
the whole day beside a little loch. The thing 
happened as I was coming home. But for the 
proper understanding of what happened you must 
understand something of the configuration of the 


I 5 0 


STEALTHY TERROR 


glen through which I travelled. Both sides of 
the glen, which at its widest was never more than 
two hundred yards, were covered with thickly 
planted woods. The road ran along the south 
side, and the burn usually kept to the north, but 
twice diverged and cut across the road, and at 
these two places there were bridges, but for foot- 
passengers only. 

It was a calm still evening, one of the first 
with a sunset since my return, when I set out 
to walk the three miles of the glen that lay be- 
tween the little loch and my home. I was pleas- 
antly tired with my long day, but the road took 
its way through a lovely country, and I made good 
going, while the sun, low down on the hills be- 
hind, made my shadow, grotesquely elongated, 
take giant strides on the road ahead. 

I met no one ; but once, away in the left among 
the trees, I heard the reverberant crack of a gun 
that spoke of a gamekeeper on his rounds. 

When, however, I approached the first of the 
two foot-bridges that span the bum at the point 
where the glen narrows and forces the water to 
take a loop across the road I became aware of a 
man who stood on the narrow rustic bridge and 
looked down on the burn. He appeared to be a 
pedlar, for a yellow tin box, to which a leather 
strap was attached, lay on the ground at his feet. 
Now it was a rare thing to see any of his kind on 
that road, for, as I have said, ours was a remote 
place that lay far from the main roads, and the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


151 

population was sparse. Tramps and hawkers 
were quite unfamiliar figures, for this road ran 
over miles of moor and mountain; and so as I 
came up to the pedlar I was prepared to warn 
him that for the next twenty miles he would find 
none to whom he might sell his wares save grouse, 
and the wild deer in Glen Dye. 

He was a short slight man, spare of flesh, but, 
as the police put it on certain grim occasions, ap- 
parently well nourished. 

Raising himself from his leaning posture 
against the rail of the bridge as I approached, 
and facing me, he took off his hat. The salute 
was not unusual in itself, but it was perhaps just 
a trifle more courtly in execution than was within 
the powers, even when it was within the will, of 
any of our northern gentry of the road. The 
fellow bowed too in ingratiating fashion. 

“Can you tell me, sir, if I am on the road to 
Aberdeen?” 

Hearing him speak I understood his fine 
manners: the man was a foreigner, for though 
his English was good it had that suggestion of a 
trip or halt in it that is the last barrier to a perfect 
enunciation. I stopped, grounding the butt of 
my rod and smiling at his question. He re- 
sponded, smiling himself very pleasantly. 

“You must have left the road to Aberdeen 
five miles back,” I said. 

He threw up his hands in a gesture of dismay 
— they were thin hands, and very unclean. 


152 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Ach!” he said plaintively. “It is the lan- 
guage.” 

“You are not English?” I asked. 

“Ah no! I am Polish, from Warsaw, where 
I was student at the University once. Got into 
trouble” — here he leered atrociously — “go to 
Libau and find little British grain steamer. I 
have been nine months in Lanark, working in the 
coal-pit.” 

It rolled off like a lesson learnt, and left me 
with the feeling that the man was lying, though 
for what purpose I could not imagine. Looking 
at the hands which, he said, had worked for nine 
months in a coal-pit, and remembering the hands 
of Alec Duff and his mates, the man’s story 
seemed to me pure impudence. They were dirty 
enough, certainly, but smooth and unroughened; 
and the dirt was of another quality. 

“What do you want in Aberdeen?” I 
asked. 

“Well,” he replied, “my leetle trouble in War- 
saw, it blow over; and I expect to get a little ship, 
a fishing ship to Riga, before the storms of winter 
come.” 

I sprang a question on him suddenly, in Ger- 
man : 

“Are you afraid of the sea?” 

There seemed to come a flicker of light, a 
little spark, into his eyes, that died away as soon 
as it came, and was replaced by an appearance of 
thoughtfulness. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


i53 


“That is German, is it not? I do not under- 
stand. I am a Russian Pole, from Estopol, east 
of Warsaw.” 

He smiled as if something had pleased him, 
as a man smiles sometimes at his own lie, when 
the deception is either so gross a thing as not to 
be hid or when he does not care to hide it further. 
There was something reptilian about the creature. 

Reshouldering my rod I prepared to move 
on. 

“Look here, my man,” I said, “I asked you 
if you were afraid of the sea. I have no idea 
why you should lie about it, but I fancy you have 
more German than I have.” 

He grinned at me. 

“The Engleesh, they think every one is afraid 
of the sea but theirselves.” 

I passed on taking no more heed. As the dis- 
tance between us increased, so did the fellow’s 
venom increase. 

“The Engleesh!” he shouted. “You spik of 
the sea as if it were your property; but soon you 
will onderstand. You have been feeshing to- 
day? Yais! You have been feeshing in troubled 
waters before to-day, and I will show you what 
comes of it, I! Behold.” 

This made me pause and look back. I mar- 
velled at the man’s hate, all, apparently, roused 
by my innocent question as to the sea. He had 
picked up his yellow box and was dancing with 
rage, his feet making a great noise on the wooden 


i54 


STEALTHY TERROR 


flooring of the foot-bridge. It was a strange spec- 
tacle in that lonely glen, flooded with the soft 
light of evening. 

“Dr. Abercromby !” he shouted. “Dr. Aber- 
cromby !” 

There was something formal in his manner of 
crying my name that caught my ear. He was 
facing me with his yellow box in his two hands. 
Looking at him I saw what he did not, the fig- 
ure of a man coming up the road beyond; and 
it did not need the game^ag and the gun to tell 
me that it was Forsyth, the gamekeeper — the 
long, loping stride was sufficient. The pedlar’s 
voice rent the air as he clutched his box, as if to 
hurl it at me over the hundred yards between us : 

“I vill show you what comes of feeshing. I 
vill send your soul to feesh in Hell!” and he 
dashed his box with a loud bang on the ground. 

I think I must have been in the act of open- 
ing my mouth to laugh, when, almost simul- 
taneously with the crash of the box on the 
wooden bridge, there came from the wood along- 
side me, a sudden crack! crack! crack! At the 
first my cap was lifted clean off my head as by a 
sudden wind; with the second, a spear of red-hot 
iron passed across the back of my neck, and at 
the third my rod jerked itself from my grasp, 
became suddenly alive like a serpent, and took a 
dive into my side. I must have thrown up my 
hands and fallen backwards in a heap, collapsing 
into the shallow ditch at the side of the road, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


*55 

among the burdocks and thistles. Then darkness 
fell. 

When I came to myself Forsyth was bending 
over me, and old Peter Milne, the forester, knelt 
at my head, on one knee, with his hat full of 
water. I felt horribly sick and weak. 

“He’s coming round, Peter,” Forsyth was say- 
ing. “But, man, it was an awfu’ narrow thing 
that.” 

“Ay,” said Peter. “If ye had na’ let off your 
gun, and if I had na’ shouted in the plantation 
behind the blackgaird’s back, it’s a funeral we’d 
have had on Friday.” 

Then I must have gone off again, for when I 
came round they were examining the back of my 
neck. 

“An eighth of an inch more, and he’d have been 
by wi’ it.” 

“Do you think maybe the sinews are cut?” 
asked Peter. “I mind me of a chap that was 
here before you, Wullie. He had a bit accident 
that cut the sinews of his neck, and when he got 
better his neck was set stiff, looking up to the 
sky.” 

To this Forsyth seemed to give no heed, going 
on laving my head with the cool water. 

“It’s a fac’ I’m tellin’ you,” said Peter. “He 
was na’ here long, for, as the laird said, he micht 
ha’ done for pheasants and grouse, but he was 
no use for the rabbits and hares and whittericks 
or anythin’ that does na’ fly.” 


1 56 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Wheesht, man,” said the gamekeeper. 

With considerable pain I was able to raise my- 
self a little. 

“The pedlar with the yellow box,” I 
gasped. 

“Och! he’s all right,” said Forsyth. “I took 
him in my stride and stamped on him. Now 
drink this.” And he held Peter’s old hat to my 
lips! 

“Did you catch him?” I asked. 

“Ay,” said Forsyth. “I just caught him on 
the side of his head, as I passed, and knockit the 
little screechin’ devil over the brig.” 

“He’s there yet,” Peter chimed in. “I 
hauled him oot o’ the water when I went to fill 
my hat; and he’s lyin’ on the side, gaspin’ like a 
fish.” 

“Do you think you could walk, sir?” the game- 
keeper asked encouragingly. 

Peter suggested that a gate might be taken off 
its hinges to carry me. This was all the stimula- 
tion I needed. Nothing would have pleased 
Peter better than to have officiated in such a 
procession. I was still dazed, but did not seem 
to have received any serious damage. 

“How did it all happen?” I asked. 

“Deed, sir,” Forsyth remarked grimly, “that’s 
just what Peter and me are waitin’ to ask 
you. All I know is I saw that little devil on the 
brig dancin’ a jig — a kind of Glesca’ Jew I’m 
thinkin’ — and you standin’ watchin’. Then he 


STEALTHY TERROR 


157 


clashed down his bit box, and that was a signal, 
for on the nick there came three shots from the 
trees near ye; then I started runnin’.” 

“Ay,” said Peter, taking up the tale, “I heard 
the shots when I was up by in the wood. So I 
came crashin’ through the young Douglas firs, so 
as not to miss the sport” — Peter was quite un- 
conscious of the grimness of that — “and I heard 
the fellow that fired go tearin’ through the un- 
dergrowth. I never saw him. It could na’ well 
have been an accident, could it?” 

“It was no accident,” said Forsyth, picking up 
his gun. 

“A great stir it’ll make in the papers,” said 
Milne. “The police will be oot from Steenhive 
whenever we report it.” He smacked his lips 
over the prospect. “It’ll make a great eclaw in 
the county.” 

Now any eclat was the last thing I desired. 
It was amazing to me to think that the affair of 
the Henschel papers was not yet finished, and 
that this hate of me should carry them to such 
lengths. It was like childish rage, spiteful but 
irrational. I could not understand it. Surely, 
long ago, they must have discovered that I had 
myself been fooled in risking my life for that 
infantile drawing. Had they jeered and laughed 
at me, I could have understood. Supposing this 
affair came out in public, there was not only my 
mother to think of, the whole miserable adven- 
tures connected with little Eitel’s drawings for his 


158 STEALTHY TERROR 

dear Papa’s birthday would have to become 
known! Not if I could help it! 

“Perhaps it was an accident,”' I said at 
length. 

“It was nae accident thon,” Forsyth asserted. 
“The man that fired the shot meant to have your 
life.” 

“Would you swear to that in a Court of Jus- 
tice, Forsyth?” I asked him. 

The gamekeeper stroked his chin consideringly. 

“I would not,” he said. “But it’s what I 
think.” 

“Just so,” I answered. “Now I’ll tell you 
what I think. The shot was fired by a cyclist. 
Many cyclists carry guns for fear of tramps ; and 
this one had just gone into the wood to try his 
weapon.” 

Forsyth eyed me queerly and said nothing. It 
was Peter who spoke: 

“Well, well, I’ll just go down and bring up 
that little fellow in the water, and we’ll see what 
he says to it all.” 

When he had gone, the gamekeeper spoke up: 

“Mr. Abercromby, I ken fine there’s more in 
this affair than meets the eye; but, if you don’t 
want any scandal about it, you’ve only to say the 
word.” 

“Forsyth,” I said, knowing he was to be 
trusted, “I’ll be open with you. There is a lot 
behind this. Later I may tell you about it, for I 
think you are a brave man, and I may need the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


159 


help of a brave man, should you be disposed to 
offer it. But say nothing to Peter Milne.” 

He nodded. 

“That’s all right then: the thing’s as close with 
me as a kirk door on week-days.” 

“Do you think Milne will go spreading sensa- 
tional stories?” I asked rather anxiously. 

“That’s what I’m sure he will do,” said the 
gamekeeper. “But, if he does, what’s his word 
against mine, when everybody knows old Peter 
Milne for the biggest leear in Kincardineshire. 
It’s no a verra likely story for a man o’ his repu- 
tation to find credit for.” 

We saw Peter coming back alone, and knew 
that the man with the yellow box was either 
escaped or dead. He was carrying something, 
however. 

“Losh, the man’s gone!” he cried to us. “No 
a trace of him left, except this.” And he came 
forward with a lot of pedlar’s goods: a hand- 
ful of boot laces, clothes-brushes, cheap scissors, 
a tooth-brush, and such-like. “They were swim- 
min’ round and round in the pool below the brig,” 
he said. “I’m thinkin’ they must ha’ tummilt 
oot o’ his box.” He began to wipe the scissors. 
“I’ll be keepin’ them for maself, as a sort of 
souveneer.” 

“And the rest too,” I said. “Finders are 
keepers.” 

“Hoot no!” he said, pleased. “What 
would I do wi’ a clothes-brush, I that only brush 


160 STEALTHY TERROR 

my breeks for funerals, ye ken; and ye ken it’s 
verra seldom we have one now.” 

The regretful tone with which he concluded 
gave me a cold chill. 

“Take ye the clothes-brush, sir,” he went on, 
“as a memorial of your narra escape. Ay, and 
Forsyth can have this funny wee brush, as a 
souveneer of the clout he gave the tinker.” 

The gamekeeper put the tooth-brush in his 
pocket. 

“Ay,” he remarked, “I’ll take it; it’ll be 
verra useful to me for cleaning the lock o’ my 
gun.” 

Above everything else now, I wanted to get 
home and have a long meditation over the event 
that had happened. Having fixed up the game- 
keeper there was nothing to fear from Peter 
Milne’s talk. Talk he could. But I knew that 
when people went to Forsyth for corroboration 
they would get none; and so Peter’s true story 
would merely add to his reputation for romancing. 
Both men accompanied me on the way, for I had 
no fancy to be left alone, and perhaps be potted 
at from among the trees again. 

But when I got home ultimately I found 
something which soon gave me other food for 
thought. I had been wondering how I could 
slip unnoticed to my room. As a matter of fact, 
there was small need to trouble on the point. 
The house was in a state of great excitement, my 
mother so full of her own news as to have no 


STEALTHY TERROR 161 

eyes for my condition. She met me at the door, 
the village constable behind her. 

“Hugh, did you have any money or valuables 
in your room?” 

“Why,” I cried, “what’s the matter — something 
happened?” prepared to be glad something had 
happened. 

“Burglar, or burglars,” said the constable im- 
pressively. 

“We sent all up and down the burn, looking 
for you,” said my mother. 

My room was in a state of complete disorder, 
the place littered with the contents of the drawers, 
the mattress and the pillows cut open and their 
insides scattered everywhere. Books lay all 
about. The backs had even been removed from 
the pictures; and the total debris made a huge 
pile upon the floor. I sat down on the edge of 
my devastated bed. The policeman, notebook in 
hand, took advantage of my speechless condition. 

“I would like fine to get a list of the missing 
articles, Mr. Abercromby, so’s I’d repor-rt to the 
sair-rgent,” he said. 

This I ignored. 

“Tell me what happened?” I said to my 
mother. 

But the officer was not to be done out of the 
full glory of such an occasion, the first time, I 
suppose, he had come face to face with crime in 
the whole course of his innocent career as a rural 
policeman. 


1 62 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Maybe, sir,” he remarked, “it would be 
better if I read over to you my offeecial report 
here.” 

He thumbed over his oblong notebook and be- 
gan: 

“Tuesday, 21st July. — Called to Drumock 
House by messenger at 3.21 p.m. On arrival 
was met by the lady of the house, Mrs. Aber- 
cromby, who informed me that a burglarious 
entry had been made, and various articles (list 
enclosed) removed. The circumstances as the 
aforementioned lady stated them was, that, about 
ten o’clock a man called at the house inquiring 
for Dr. Abercromby, son of the aforesaid, but 
he was out. This man, who was 24, dark eyes 
and beard, and generally of foreign Italian ap- 
pearance, hereupon informed Mrs. A. that he 
was in the employment of an Aberdeen house 
decorating firm who had received instructions 
from the doctor to call and estimate for certain 
structural alterations and decorations to his rooms. 
Mrs. A., never having heard of nor agreed to the 
same, was for refusing admission, being somewhat 
hot about it, but the man was pressing, saying 
that he had a train to catch, and that he was only 
for measuring the doctor’s room that day. So he 
was admitted to the rooms and Mrs. A. left the 
house to go in search for the doctor. She was 
absent over an hour, and on her return the man 
was gone. Christina MacKellar, aged 42 and 
5 months, serving-maid to the above, deposes 


STEALTHY TERROR 


163 

that she heard no undue noise in the interim, 
and that the Italian departed in a great hurry. 
Did not observe what goods he carried with 
him.” 

He snapped his book. 

“That’s as far as I’ve got, and I think we’d 
best now begin the inventory.” 

“I wish,” said my mother, “you would score 
that out about my being displeased — in the cir- 
cumstances.” 

The constable waved his hand. 

“A verra natural feelin’ it was, mem,” he 
said. “I am afeered it must stand. Forbye, 
it’s Christina MacKellar’s evidence, and it does 
na’ do to tamper wi’ offeedal documents.” 

My mother turned on the damsel who stood 
at the door, flushing, both horrified and angry, to 
see her harmless backdoor gossip about the 
mistress thus chronicled in an official docu- 
ment. 

“Never heed him, mem, it’s only Tammy 
Bruce, though he talks as if he was the Lord 
High Justice. I’ll see his wife the night, and 
you’ll see if she does na’ make him write down 
just what you would like said. Him wi’ his 
Christina MacKellar this and that! — him that’s 
never given me but Kirsty since I was at the 
school wi’ his wife, and he a post office laddie, 
fleein’ aboot on a red bicycle.” 

The brutal directness of this attack took the 
official breath away. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


164 

“Now, nowl” he said; but the effort at dignity 
was pale and spiritless. 

Meanwhile I sat linking up things in my mind. 
The murderous attack in the glen was not the 
merely spiteful act of revenge over which I had 
marvelled; it was connected with the search that 
had been made in my room. They were still 
after Henschel’s paper then! It was extraordi- 
nary. Were they quite unaware of the value- 
lessness of that paper? Why, I did not myself 
know where it was now! I had thrown it into 
the fire-place on the night of my arrival. Then, 
a sudden small gleam of light broke over my 
understanding — a suspicion that moved swiftly 
into certainty. Why should I assume that the 
paper was worthless, merely because of its surface 
appearance of childishness? Others, who knew 
more of it than did I, did not think it worthless. 
I forgot where I was, and flared up. 

“Oh, fool, fool, fool!” I cried. 

“Hugh!” said my mother reprovingly. And 
I saw that I had been addressing the already 
crestfallen constable. When, however, I explained 
that I had been merely speaking of myself, he 
cleared up, feeling, I suppose, that he was in good 
company, after Kirsty MacKellar’s attack. I 
turned to that masterful creature. 

“Did you see anything of a pedlar with a 
yellow box?” 

“A pedlar!” said she. 

“Yes, a pedlar with a yellow box.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 165 

“Ay,” she said. “There was a man wi’ a yel- 
low box sellin’ things.” 

“You talked to him?” 

“No more than ordinary.” 

“When was it?” 

“About eleven, or maybe twelve.” 

“That is when the other man was in the 
house?” 

“Exactly,” said Kirsty. 

The officer coughed and cleared his throat. 

“So,” he said, “while the pedlar with the box 
held you in talk at the backdoor, the Italian had 
the full run of the house, eh ? That is very strange 
conduct, very strange 1” 

Kirsty was flustered, and had nothing to 
say. 

This gave me the chance of getting rid of 
them, for there was a thing that I was anxious to 
find out above everything else. I had been trying 
to remember whether a fire had been lit in my 
room since I came home, and I could not. 

A fire had been laid since I came home, but had 
one been lighted? 

“Well,” I said to them, “just talk this over in 
the kitchen, will you?” 

They left me, and in a second I was on 
my knees before the grate. Piece by piece I 
removed the coals. No, it had not been lighted! 
Crumpled and dirtied indeed, but intact, there 
was little Eitel’s drawing for his dear Papa’s 
birthday. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


1 66 

It was nine o’clock then. By 9.45 I sent a 
note asking Forsyth to come and see me at once. 
It was what I was able to read in that paper, in 
the three-quarters of an hour, that made me ask 
him to bring his gun. 


CHAPTER VIII 



NY one looking at the drawings by the 


ostensible infant Eitel would almost cer- 


tainly take the thing at its surface value. 
If such a one happened to be a father him- 
self he might perhaps look at the drawing a lit- 
tle longer than any one else, but no one would 
really examine the thing seriously. And yet I had 
not sat down, to study the thing from the right 
angle, for more than half an hour before I saw 
sinister significance in that apparently childish 
document. 

The new angle, of course, I gained from my 
knowledge of the anxiety of these men to re- 
possess it. Without at first reading all its secrets, 
it cost me much trouble and many dangers before 
the whole riddle was unravelled, I saw this much 
almost at once — that it portended great danger to 
the British Empire. And yet it is curious to 
reflect that I was first put on the secret by a 
characteristically German flourish, by a detail that 
was unessential to the plan. 

The whole paper is, indeed, characteristic of 
the German mind in its mixture of childishness 


STEALTHY TERROR 


168 

and cunning. For the German is childish in many 
ways: he is like a bad boy, not only in his love 
of destruction for its own sake, but also for his 
irrepressible boastfulness. It would be nothing 
to educe examples of these two bad qualities from 
the writings of Prussian soldiers such as Bern- 
hardi, one expects that sort of thing from them; 
but when one finds the same spirit running through 
the words of grave philosophic historians like 
Treitschke, one sees the thing is inherent in the 
race. 

Now, it was something needlessly boastful in 
the drawing that was my first clue. Indeed, it is 
so obvious as scarcely to require indication. Let 
any one look at the figures of the bleeding heart 
and the dead lion. These two symbols stand for 
a hundred things that were being said by Germany 
about England. And if little Eitel, whoever he 
was, in his derision inserted tame sheep as guar- 
dians of the heart, well, there are those who are 
not German at all who now think his action had 
plenty of justification, and was no libel on certain 
people whom we need not here mention. 

Well, the first thing I noted was this element 
of boastfulness, boastful, for, as I now know, it 
was quite unessential to the information contained 
in the drawing. An almost daily reference in 
newspapers and in music-halls to the “heart of 
the Empire” showed me that it was a symbol for 
London. Just as clearly as if stated in words, 
though it will be observed that the drawing bears 


STEALTHY TERROR 169 

no explanatory letter-press, save in its designedly 
misleading suggestion as to its author and destina- 
tion, one could see that it was a London attacked 
from several directions. Notice, too, the signifi- 
cance of the church standing half-way up the hill. 
The spire carries the usual vane, but there is 
something singular about that vane — the marks 
of direction are not set in the customary N.E.W.S. 
Obviously this departure from the usual is de- 
signed, and so these seemed to me to indicate the 
direction from which the attacks were to come. 
And it was certainly not difficult to tell from 
whom the attack was to come: that spirit of 
boastfulness, which is, it seems, ineradicable, 
made it impossible to keep out the black German 
eagle that hovers above the heart. 

It was at this point that I sent for Forsyth 
and his gun. I knew that my pursuers counted 
on my yet having the paper. They would know 
that I had opened and examined it by this time; 
but reckoned on my individual stupidity as, not 
without justification from some high quarters, 
they would have reckoned on our racial stupidity, 
to keep me from penetrating its secret. So far 
that was plain sailing. But they would reason, 
that even if that were so, the secret would not be 
so safe as to make it needless for them to regain 
possession. Would I not be most likely, seeing 
its apparent worthlessness, to destroy it? Here 
I think their reasoning was acute. No! I would 
not destroy it, for the English have a national 


STEALTHY TERROR 


170 

passion for collecting curios, and for showing 
them. I would, therefore, retain the thing in 
order to exhibit it as a curiosity, and it might be 
that I might show it and tell the story of how I 
had acquired it; and there might be a man there 
who was no fool, and to whom the riddle would 
speak. And after all there were, doubtless, rea- 
sons which I could not guess at that made recovery 
imperative to them. 

I saw the imminence of the danger to which, 
that night, I stood exposed. For I recognised 
that some time in the dark hours they would 
come back in force. This lonely house with its 
surrounding woods invited attack. It was, per- 
haps, too, their last chance. 

The police officer put his head into the room 
to announce the conclusion of his interview with 
Kirsty MacKellar. 

“I’ve taken a note about what Christina Mac- 
Kellar says — about yon man with the yellow box, 
sir,” he said. 

I noted the reversion to the official full name, 
and inferred that he had got the better of Kirsty 
in the interview. 

“Very good,” I answered. 

“It’s gettin’ verra late,” he went on. “And 
I’m awa’ to my bed; but I was thinkin’ of seein’ 
again into it in the mornin’.” 

“Right, Mr. Bruce!” I replied. “Come and 
see me again in the morning.” 

“Verra good, sir,” the functionary nodded. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


171 

“I find it’s a verra wise thing to sleep on a prob- 
lem. We must na’ be rash. Somethin’ may turn 
up afore mornin’.” 

Something did turn up before morning! It 
would be passing strange if something did not — 
but it would be a matter in which P.C. Bruce 
would be far beyond his depths. I had no in- 
tention of dragging this honest-minded simple 
constable into it. Still, as I wished him good 
night, I could not resist a question. I asked him 
if he had any night duty. He stared at me, be- 
wildered. 

“Night duty!” he cried. “When a’ body is 
in their beds by ten o’clock. What would I do 
stravaigin’ the street after that; it would be a 
breach of the peace in itsel’.” 

After I had made a round of the house and 
seen to all the fastenings, I sent Kirsty and my 
mother to bed, and sat down to wait for Forsyth. 
Had there been time I would have taken my 
mother and the servant to the village inn, and 
gone on to the railway station to catch the London 
train, but it was now much too late to think of 
that. Not only was there no train available, but 
even had there been I could not think of en- 
dangering the lives of women on that road be- 
tween us and the village. 

Forsyth brought two dogs with him, a little 
Aberdeen and a big lurcher. It was quite dark 
now under the trees, and once they were inside I 
was glad to bolt the door. I let Forsyth into 


172 


STEALTHY TERROR 


something of the story, telling him of the paper 
that had come by accident into my possession, 
and that I must hand it over to the Government. 
That, with the mention of the fact that the men 
who were trying to take it from me were for- 
eigners, was quite enough for Forsyth, for, as he 
explained himself, he had a “verra poor opeenion 
of foreignors.” As a sportsman, of course, his 
experience of foreigners had not been happy. 
The gamekeeper made a tour of the house to 
inspect our defences, noting with approval the 
strong shutters to the lower windows, bolted with 
iron bars on the inside. The doors were also 
very strong, and so, though there were many 
points open to assault, there was not one that 
could be forced without giving us due warning 
of what was going on. While we were at supper 
I told Forsyth something of the siege I had 
endured from the men in the house in Berlin, 
remarking that there I had only one door to de- 
fend. 

“Ay,” said the stolid gamekeeper. “But that 
time ye had no guns, which is a great thing.” 

“And I hadn’t you,” I added, smiling. 

At which he was pleased. 

I wondered whether I had been quite wise 
not to retain the constable, in view of the large 
area we had to defend. But Forsyth brushed this 
aside. 

“Tammy Bruce is much better in his bed,” 
he remarked. “What good would he be here! 


STEALTHY TERROR 


173 


He canna’ shoot, and he wadna’ ; but he’d do his 
best to stop us from having a go at them. Now 
I think that was a very clever dodge of yours with 
the rope and the man’s hand; but, mind ye, sir, 
we’ll hae nae time for that this nicht. And for 
myself I’m nae verra clever at such circus-like 
things; but I’ve a verra quick forefinger for the 
gun, and I’m no going to hesitate when once I’m 
forced to it.” 

“Of course,” I said, “having asked you to help 
me in a matter that means risking your life I 
cannot expect you to make the risk greater than 
it need be; but I may tell you I hope for my 
mother’s sake there will be no shooting to-night. 
If anyone got killed, even one of these black- 
guards, it would be impossible for her to continue 
living here.” 

Though I said this I had, as you may sup- 
pose, but the scantiest hope about it. Neverthe- 
less the gamekeeper understood. He was engaged 
in oiling my old gun. 

“Now, that’s just where the dufference lies 
between a dead shot and a bad shot. A fine 
shot, the like of myself, can pick and choose 
where to hit a man, ay, even with a shot-gun; 
but a bad shot is far more likely to kill. All the 
same,” he added, “I’ll kill sooner than be kilt.” 

“That’s all I can expect,” I said. “Beyond 
this, that, to keep us right with Constable Bruce 
afterwards, I hope we can get them to begin the 
shooting.” 


174 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Quite right, /sir,” the gamekeeper nodded. 

I put out some whisky and invited him to 
light up. But Forsyth must “set” his dogs before 
settling himself. The big lurcher, I fancied, 
would be a useful ally in a tight corner, but the 
wee stumpy Aberdeen, though game enough, 
seemed likely to be out of it in a scrimmage. For- 
syth smiled at this. 

“They’re a combination,” he said. “Jock has 
a’ the brains and Donal’, the lurcher, has a’ the 
strength. Just come and see this!” 

He took the little dog along the long passage 
towards the kitchen, showing him the backdoor 
and the windows of three separate rooms. The 
little fellow trotted at his side, evidently under- 
standing. When he had been given his beat his 
master held up a forefinger. 

“Now!” he said. 

Jock gave a brief wag of his tail, to signify 
his comprehension, and we returned to our 
smoke. 

“Nothing will move him now from there,” said 
Forsyth, lighting up. “And he’ll signal the slight- 
est noise.” 

I tried to whistle Jock into the room, but no 
notice was taken. The big dog set himself to 
sleep on the hearth-rug at once. Forsyth prodded 
him with his foot. 

“You’ll see, sir, how he’ll wake up when wee 
Jockie lets on somebody’s hurting him.” 

“Does he do that?” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


175 


“Faith, ay does he, the little deevil; and it’s 
no verra chancy to be the man that Jock com- 
plains of to this lurcher.” 

So we settled ourselves down to talk of many 
things, passing the hours with phases and facts of 
the wild life of the forest and moor, subjects that 
have always a great fascination for me. It was 
quite impossible for them to rush us in any way. 
The windows were close shuttered. No light 
could show outside. And our guns stood handy. 
For perhaps two hours they gave no sign of their 
presence. Indeed, the only sound one heard in 
the intermittent pauses of our talk was but the 
excessive hooting of the owls in the wood behind 
the house. I think we were both drowsing a lit- 
tle, tired with our vigil, and with most of our 
subjects worked dry, when we both started into 
acute attention. It was a curious little cry that 
seemed to come from the far end of the passage 
where Jock was on guard. We sat up staring at 
each other. I couldn’t say I had heard anything, 
and, except for the fact that the gamekeeper had 
started up, too, I might have thought it was noth- 
ing. The big dog still slumbered on. Forsyth 
held up his hand warningly. 

“Wait!” he whispered. “If it’s anything, Jock 
will speak louder next time.” 

I took a glance at my watch; it was half-past 
two. The darkest hours of the night were over. 
Very soon it would be dawn. We waited listen- 
ing; but there came no further warning from the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


176 

dog. I knew that a strenuous day lay before me, 
and as Forsyth had been urging me to go and 
have a sleep, saying that the Aberdeen was sure 
to give us plenty of time, even supposing he, 
too, were to fall asleep in his chair, I went up- 
stairs to lie down. It was beginning to strike 
me as very extraordinary that no attempt had 
been yet made to force an entrance. From the 
window I could just discern the dark ghostly 
outlines of the trees. Up above, the sky was 
of the dull grey texture which it takes on when 
the dawn is imminent. Fut, down below, the 
deep shadows cast by the trees were numerous 
enough to have hidden an army. I was sorely 
tempted to open and look out; it would have 
relieved me from that feeling of being cooped 
up; but it would have been very dangerous, I 
knew, for though I might hear I could not yet 
see, and would expose myself to the risk of being 
shot. Then I remembered that there was a sky- 
light in the bathroom on the slope of the roof 
which could be lifted up noiselessly, even if it 
chanced for once to be shut. So, carefully, to 
avoid disturbing my mother, whose room I had 
to pass, I made my way along to the bathroom. 
I could of course use no light which would have 
shown, but I needed none. 

This part of the house had been a modern 
addition to the original building, and its roof was 
at a considerably lower level than that of the first 
part. Still, I knew that without a ladder it was 


STEALTHY TERROR 


177 


equally impossible to scale, and there was no lad- 
der available. Yet the first thing I saw when I 
entered was a pair of legs dangling in the air 
from the skylight. 

Had my eyes not grown accustomed to the 
dark I should not have seen at all. My impulse 
was to shout a warning to Forsyth below; but 
somehow I did not. The man, whose body entire- 
ly filled the narrow aperture, was carefully feel- 
ing with his feet for something to support his 
descent. They were spidery legs, and his feet 
were shoeless. Seeing them I thought I might 
await developments, for I was most unwilling to 
set up any alarm that would rouse the house. 
Now I thought I recognised the legs as belonging 
to my Russian Pole of yesterday, the pedlar with 
the yellow box, and he, if you remember, was a 
little man. I thought I could manage him with 
the help of the big bath towel that was hung on 
the rack to dry. I got this novel weapon ready. 
Suddenly the legs went together, slightly bent for 
a moment, and the fellow landed noiselessly on 
the floor. He wasn’t, however, well there before 
my wet towel was over his head and we both full 
length on the ground. 

He was so surprised at first that he never ut- 
tered a cry or attempted any resistance. When 
he did, the cry was strangled and feeble, and his 
struggles in my arms were useless. He was 
safely trussed up in less time than it takes me to 
write this account of it. I sat on him while I 


i 7 8 


STEALTHY TERROR 


considered what next to do. It seemed to me 
that their plan of operations had been to send the 
small man inside, to open a door or a window 
through which the whole gang might rush us. 
That was perhaps why they had waited for a little 
light. But how had he reached the skylight? 
That puzzled me; I stood up on a chair and 
peered cautiously through. Then I saw! Quite 
close to the window rose the dark column of the 
kitchen chimney. There was something round 
it. In a minute I saw it was a rope, and I could 
see against the sky that the rope, stretched taut, 
went at a sharp slope up among the boughs of a 
big chestnut-tree at the edge of the wood. The 
distance was no more than twenty feet, and clearly 
they had swung the rope first round the chimney, 
made it fast below, and then carried the free end 
high up the chestnut-tree. 

The Russian Pole, who you may remember was 
not without some experience of seafaring life, 
had quietly let himself slip from the tree on to 
the roof. Very likely it was the first rattle of the 
rope on the slates that had disturbed the Aber- 
deen. After that they made no noise. It was 
clever — I had to admit that. It was perhaps the 
only possible way. Into that stoutly shuttered 
house, with well armed and determined men to 
defend it, they could not break a way. They had 
to find a method by which they could outwit 
both dogs and men. Well, they would have to 
lose more time. Let them find out that their 


STEALTHY TERROR 


179 


scheme had miscarried by waiting! They would 
be finely puzzled at the absence of any sign of 
either failure or success. 

I wanted to have a look at the fellow, but of 
course dared not strike a match. They would 
be watching eagerly enough. Let them. The 
dark house had swallowed up the messenger, and 
would be as silent as before. Anyhow, I judged 
we might count on half an hour; so I picked up 
the man, got him under my arm, and carefully 
made my way downstairs and along to the dining- 
room. Forsyth had his gun up as I entered the 
open door, but recognising me he lowered it, 
staring. The lurcher, however, didn’t like what 
I carried, and came round sniffing, with low 
growls. 

I explained hurriedly, while Forsyth passed 
his hands through the man’s pockets. He ex- 
tracted, first, a revolver from the breast-pocket, 
and then from the belt a long sheath-knife. I 
took possession of both. The revolver was a 
Browning, and might be useful to one later. 

“Now let’s have a look at him,” I said as I 
unwound the cord of my dressing-gown which 
fastened the towel round his head and body. 

“The pedlar with the yellow box!” cried 
Forsyth. 

“Joseph Dewinski !” I cried, astonished. 

And so, indeed, it was. He stood there just 
gibbering with rage, in impotent fury, the 
superior, calm, masterful disdain clean knocked 


180 STEALTHY TERROR 

out of him for once. It was pleasant to me to 
look on him then and to remember the airy in- 
solence, the quite gratuitous insolence, of his part- 
ing salute to me on the night when I got possession 
of the Little Eitel paper. But if you ask how 
it came to pass that I had not recognised him in 
the pedlar with the yellow tin box, I cannot an- 
swer. I can only say that the thing was so. 
Perhaps it was simply because Dewinski did not 
will me to recognise him then. Perhaps I was 
on the point of it when the shots were fired. I 
do not know. Yet the strange fact remains that 
Forsyth, looking on the man in his own character? 
of Joseph Dewinski — if this really was the man 
himself, and not one of his many parts — saw in 
him the pedlar with the yellow box, while I seeing 
him as a pedlar saw not the Joseph Dewinski. 
As I say, I merely state the fact, without pre- 
tending to have any explanation. 

He was an evil man, Joseph Dewinski; there 
were elements in him that might have belonged 
to the Enemy of Mankind himself. God forbid 
that I should speak harshly or uncharitably of a 
man who had to pay such a terrible price for his 
crimes; but, if the truth is spoken, he was a man 
who loved evil with a disinterested devotion, and 
followed it as an ideal. Frail in health as I 
judged him to be, fragile in body as I knew he 
was, behind the outer physical impotence were 
mental powers not surpassed by more than three, 
or possibly only two, of any of the men of in- 


STEALTHY TERROR 181 

tellect I have known. I am not sure, even now, 
that he was of Hebrew blood; but it would be 
charitable to think he was, and that the age-long 
oppression of that race was responsible both for 
the physical incapacity and the perversion of his 
mental gifts. 

“Ye ken the fellow then?” said Forsyth. 

“I recognise him,” I answered. 

Dewinski almost smiled on me. He was cer- 
tainly not without vanity, and he took, and ap- 
preciated the distinction that was lost on the game- 
keeper. He was recovering the habitual sang- 
froid, which I had so severely damaged by my 
rough handling. 

“Could I have a drink?” he asked. “And may 
I sit down?” 

Motioning him to a chair, I poured out a little 
peg of whisky and passed the cigarettes. 

“That which made me a libre penseur” he 
remarked, making a wry face at the drink, “was 
the thought that if Intelligence lay behind Crea- 
tion, the merely physical would never have been 
given any kind of superiority over the intellect- 
ual.” 

Forsyth at this resumed his chair. 

“Meaning,” I said, “that I, the fool, got the 
better of you, the wise man.” 

“You put it crudely, Abercromby, but — well, 
you take my point.” He shrugged. 

I was nettled. A man may be an athlete with- 
out being imbecile; and physical degeneracy is 


182 


STEALTHY TERROR 


no guarantee of mental genius. Perhaps I 
might with fairness have pointed out to him that 
I had had to match his gang with something 
more than thews or muscles; but I preferred he 
should continue to think of me as a simple fellow, 
incapable of penetrating into the Little Eitel’s 
secret. It was not impossible that he was pro- 
voking me into such a proof of my cleverness as 
would let him know to what use I had put the 
paper. 

“Perhaps,” I said, taking his first point, “it 
would be for the good of your soul, and the 
health of the society in which you mix, if you 
could see that Victory sometimes depends on 
qualities that are neither intellectual nor physical, 
but moral.” 

This speech affected his face in much the 
same manner as his first sup of the whisky had 
done. 

“Spoken like a true Scotsman,” he cried; and 
I marvelled at the man’s varied knowledge of 
racial idiosyncrasies. He crossed one leg over 
the other and flicked the ash of his cigarette on to 
the carpet. “Now,” he continued, “won’t you 
sit down and let us consider that?” He smiled 
in his feline way, and, as usual, there was a 
sneer. 

To this invitation to the use of one of my own 
chairs I gave a curt nod of refusal. 

“Sorry,” I said. “You consider it yourself, 
while I go and have a look at your friends outside. 


STEALTHY TERROR 183 

They must be considering what next to do since 
you are absent.’’ 

Dewinski did not like that. The pitfall of all 
high intellect is that it is apt to imagine that an 
inferior quality of intellect is non-existent. 

A plan of operations had been forming itself 
in my mind since the capture of Dewinski. There 
was some reason to believe that the disappearance, 
and silence, of that gentleman would have a dis- 
quieting effect upon his companions outside. I 
had no doubt that the fellow who had examined 
my room, with a view to structural alterations, 
had also taken the opportunity of examining the 
rest of the house. They would know that the 
skylight belonged to the bathroom, and would 
expect to make a safe and undisturbed entrance 
there. Nevertheless it was hardly credible that 
Dewinski would embark on his adventures without 
providing for contingencies. I guessed what one 
of them would be: that since I was the quarry I 
must be hunted down, that nothing, and no one 
else, not even himself, was of the least impor- 
tance; and that I must be taken by any means 
whatever, before another day dawned. 

This night attack on a lonely house was not a 
thing that could be kept quiet, and the fact that 
they were prepared to make it was evidence in 
itself that they intended this should be their last 
effort. Therefore I was under no illusion as to 
the danger in which the house stood. They had 
to get me. And sooner than let the day break 


STEALTHY TERROR 


184 

without accomplishing that I am certain, now, 
they would, but for Dewinski’s presence in it, 
have set fire to the house. So I have to confess, 
therefore that the plan I formed was more or less 
forced on me. It was myself they were after. 
Very well, I must get away, somehow, and take 
them with me. By this time I was back at the 
skylight, listening. Whatever plans Dewinski had 
left with them it was now high time to put them 
into execution. Day would soon be here. I had 
brought from my room a strong knicker suit and 
a stout pair of shoes into which I changed, trans- 
ferring the Little Eitel document, some money, 
and the Browning pistol. 

Jock began to bark loudly. 

Then as I looked out at the window I saw the 
rope swaying violently. Some one was on it at 
the other end, evidently coming on, hand over 
hand. I jumped back and got a razor from the 
shelf, and in a minute had shot out my arm full 
length. He must have been a big heavy man, 
for the razor went through the rope as if it had 
been cheese. The fellow gave a cry as he fell. 
I heard him go with a dull thud against the garden 
wall, under the trees — a broken leg would be a 
small price to pay for that fall. Anyhow that 
was one more out of action, and as the bridge 
was down I ran for the dining-room, to find 
Forsyth gone; but not Dewinski, nor the lurcher. 
The dog had him in a corner, in terror, immov- 
able. From the kitchen I heard a loud hammer- 


STEALTHY TERROR 185 

ing noise, Jockie wildly summoning the lurcher, 
and the big dog running towards the door, and 
then back again, uncertain as to where his duty 
lay. I threw myself on Dewinski, trussed him 
up in a bundle, arms and legs, while he cursed me 
furiously, kicking and biting like an animal, and 
before I had finished the lurcher had gone. When 
I got into the hall, my mother called to me from 
the top of the staircase. I could just see her, a 
glimmering figure in white standing at the top of 
the stairs, Kirsty beside her. 

“What is it, Hugh?” she called. 

So I had to run up and quieten her fears, lead- 
ing her back to her room. There in briefest 
fashion I told her who these men were and what 
was the nature of the paper they sought. What 
did she think I should do? 

I did not doubt her answer. 

“Go and deliver it to the authorities respon- 
sible for the safety of your country, and God 
guide you,” she said. 

She pushed me gently from the room. I got 
Kirsty MacKellar to accompany me to the front 
door, telling her she was to shut and lock it the 
moment I was out. From the back the dogs 
were still barking furiously, but I knew that, at 
any rate until I heard Forsyth shoot, there was 
no danger to the house. 

I wanted to get away before that. As I un- 
bolted the door and stepped outside, there was 
just the grey dull light in which one could dis- 


STEALTHY TERROR 


18 6 

tinguish the heavy dark clouds overhead that gave 
the promise of rain later on. There seemed to 
be no one at all on this side of the house. As I 
anticipated, they did not dream of an exit being 
attempted, least of all perhaps by the front door; 
and they had all gone, less two, to force an en- 
trance from the back. 

What a pity it was that I could not take ad- 
vantage of such a chance! I knew I must draw 
them off ; there was no other way ! Still ! I slipped 
over among the shrubbery, and from the midst 
of it saw along the side of the' house where 
they were operating. I could just distinguish 
five, or perhaps six, men. They were bringing 
up a long heavy object which seemed like a fal- 
len tree. Yes! with that as a ram they would 
soon have the shutters battered in. Dewinski’s 
pistol was in my hand. 

Up till this moment, you will remember, I 
had never lifted my hand against any of their 
lives. Not even now did I wish to take life there. 
Elsewhere, and later, I would have killed any of 
them with less thought than I would have killed 
a rabbit; but not there if it could be avoided. 
Yet I was presently to be let in for a long chase 
in which to be caught meant certain death. I was 
very fit for running, probably far fitter than any 
German; still you can imagine how I scanned the 
five dark figures getting their log ready to see 
which was the best man to wing. There was little 
light to go by, but I picked out the thinnest and 


STEALTHY TERROR 187 

fired. They dropped their log as if it had sud- 
denly turned red-hot in their hands. But I had 
missed. I tried another, and they ran and flat- 
tened themselves against the wall of the house. 
Evidently they were greatly puzzled as to where 
the shots came from. I could hear their mumbled 
talk and see them craning their heads carefully, 
looking at the windows, their own pistols uplifted. 

Against the wall, however, they were a much 
better target for me than before, and my third 
shot dropped one of them. He started to scream 
horribly, writhing on the ground like a worm that 
has been cut in halves by a spade. The others 
left the wall and rushed into the shrubbery, where 
I could not see them. By and by I heard the 
snapping of twigs that told me they were working 
their way towards me. It was getting too hot, 
and I judged it time to be gone. Leaping the 
low wire fence that separated the garden on the 
east from the fields, I set off running down the 
slope towards the burn. They saw me almost at 
once, and a volley came flying after me that did 
no harm. Taking a glance behind, I saw that five 
men were getting over the fence. This was more 
than I bargained for. Then I set my face towards 
the hills. 


CHAPTER IX 


HE country that lay before me was open 



and almost treeless. After the burn 


was crossed the ground on the left, 
towards which I was heading — because in that 
direction lay the railway, which was my only 
real hope of escape— began to rise in gradual 
slopes, till the highest point was reached on the 
Knock, which was an outlying spur of the Gram- 
pians, and overlooked the great level plain of fat 
agricultural lands, through which the railway ran, 
and beyond which, seven miles away, was the sea. 

Once I had splashed through the shallow burn, 
I had some cultivated fields to cross, and then the 
ground was rough pasture-land for the hill sheep, 
till a yet higher level was attained where the 
heather began. It was my intention to cut across 
the pasture diagonally, till, at a point before the 
heather was reached, I struck on the road which 
crossed the hills to the small village of Drum- 
liddie. Here there was a wayside railway station, 
at which though few trains stopped, I hoped to 
get away on one that did. 

When I had run at a steady pace for twenty 


188 


STEALTHY TERROR 189 

minutes or so, and was now free of the cultivated 
land, I had a look back to see how the pursuit 
was faring. It may be imagined that this look 
was one of moment for me. I thought of it be- 
fore I turned my head: it would tell me much 
as to my chances. A glance revealed to me that 
two had already fallen out. One of the men, 
however, was not more than three hundred yards 
behind, but even so he had not gained a foot on 
me from the start; and I thought my staying 
powers would make it unlikely that he should 
now gain on me. The other two were fairly 
close together, but a long way behind. So on 
I went again, over and up the pasture, towards 
the hill. It was perhaps a pity that I had not 
left the house sooner, for it was now practically 
daylight. 

I was beginning to “breathe” by the time I got 
to the top of the first slope, and I had my second 
look, while I regained my wind beside the big 
stone of Druidic origin that stands there. The 
nearest man was uncomfortably near, but the 
others were still far behind, mere black dots, 
moving up the hill. I lay down beside the big 
boulder and had a shot at the runner who was 
closing in on me. He pulled up at once, flinging 
himself on the turf. Then he himself got to 
work. A bullet flattened itself on the rock above 
my head. The rock was a protection to me, while 
he lay exposed in the open. I had another go 
at him, and he didn’t like it, for he rolled him- 


190 


STEALTHY TERROR 


self over and over till he got into a depression 
in the ground where he was less exposed. 

Then he gave me “zipp — zipp — zipp” in quick 
succession, and I was in the worse position, for 
he probably had plenty of ammunition, and was 
certainly much the better marksman with that 
weapon, while I had only such shots as the maga- 
zine of the “gun” held. I did not know how 
many the thing held, either six or seven I thought, 
but I had already expended four, therefore I 
withheld my fire, expecting him to come on again, 
and intending to get him at close range from 
behind the rock. But the fellow did not come 
on. He was quite content to lie there and wait 
for the arrival of his friends. That would 
never do; I should be taken on all sides, sur- 
rounded. I stole a look and saw him watching 
me. If only I could get this fast fellow winged 
how easy it would be ! I wasted one bullet more 
to get that watching head down, and by a fluke 
it must have gone very close, for he went down, 
and kept down, it seems, till the shout of the 
other two coming on showed him that I was away 
again. 

Now the ground lay down hill for a little, and 
at the bottom of the slight slope was the high- 
est point touched by the road to Drumliddie. Be- 
yond the road was the steep slope of the Knock, 
all heather and gorse and tall bracken. I was 
running now “all out,” more like a sprinter than 
a miler. Vaulting the fence I went helter-skelter 


STEALTHY TERROR 


191 


along the Drumliddie road. If their fast man 
maintained his distance at that pace I was ready 
to bet that his moustache at least no longer 
pointed into his eyes. 

It must then have been well after four o’clock, 
for the sun was up, and with the sunlight came 
exaltation, and, with the fresh air to put the 
oxygen of the morning into the lungs, my feet 
went tapping on the road with the speed of a 
machine-gun. I had gone on so for some time, 
hearing nothing but the rhythmic sound of my 
own running; and then I became conscious of an- 
other sound that began to mingle with it, a low 
throbbing which, at first, I took to be my heart- 
beat; but soon it swelled in volume, and I knew 
it for the sound of a motor engine, coming on 
rapidly behind. This was better luck than I 
had reason to hope for! Almost certainly it 
would be the village doctor, called out at this 
early hour to some outlying sheep-farm among 
the hills. Anyway I was pretty sure not to fail 
of getting a lift whoever it might be; so I slack- 
ened down and stood waiting in the middle of the 
road. 

When it whirled into sight I saw it was a big, 
grey touring car, certainly not the good doctor’s 
Ford. Its occupants let out a shout at seeing me. 
My knees gave a queer kind of shiver, and in the 
shock of discouragement, for a moment, I stood 
helpless. It must have seemed then that I was 
transfixed with fear. And so I was! But only 


192 


STEALTHY TERROR 


for a second. Two wild leaps, and I was scram- 
bling on hands and knees up the bank of the 
road on the north side, and I heard the brakes 
jammed on and the slither of tyres on the road 
as I tore through the thick gorse that covers 
the lower slopes of the Knock. Sometimes on 
hands and knees, sometimes bent double, on I 
ran. Torn with the prickly gorse and brambles, 
sometimes thrown down, but up again almost on 
the bound; at times having to dig my nails into 
the earth for leverage, over or through all ob- 
stacles I tore a way. For I knew that the grey car 
held men that had done no running yet, and that 
for me, on this effort, hung life or death. 

Up and up I went, cutting a diagonal course 
across the western face of the hill. From time 
to time I heard a shout behind, and knew that 
either I had been seen or that the moving bracken 
or the swaying gorse had revealed my course to 
my pursuers. My heart thumped dull and hard 
with the tremendous strain, and my breath whis- 
tled in my lungs and cut like a knife; but I dare 
not pause for a moment. 

The Knock hill rises to a flat plateau of an 
acre or two of heather, which is a splendid shelter 
to lie in, and very comfortable, once you are in 
it, but which is quite useless as cover for a man 
running. I had therefore to get well out of sight 
before the heather belt was reached, and so when 
I arrived at the altitude where the gorse became 
thin and the open heather near the top began, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


193 

my course must be changed so as to hide my 
direction. 

Away on the left there was a belt of young 
spruce, like a long green ribbon, that stretched 
from the road up the hill, ending just under the 
crest. From below, as they toiled upward they 
saw me, as I intended they should, till I entered 
the belt of trees. Once on the other side I 
mounted up for a while, and then, when I judged 
my pursuers themselves were nearly through the 
trees, I cut in among them again, but much higher 
up, and with infinite precautions, going very slow- 
ly, and taking care not to set any growing thing 
swinging, nor to send a stone rolling, I made off 
to the right, on a course that would take me to 
the east side of the hill. Several times I had to 
go across the bare places on hands and knees; 
and it was terrible work where the old heather 
had been burnt for the grouse. 

It seemed ages before I had worked my way 
round to the eastern brow. More than ever I 
should be visible against the skyline if I stood up. 
So, crawling on, I worked round till what with 
the musty smell of the heather in my exhausted 
brain, and my knees so tender that every foot 
covered was a separate agony, and my eyes half 
blind with dust and sweat, I suddenly went head- 
foremost into a little pocket of the ground that 
was quite hidden, for the heather almost met over 
it from each side. So long as the progress had 
been mechanical, I seemed able to go on; but my 


194 


STEALTHY TERROR 


brain was too numbed, and my muscles too long 
set to the one sort of action for me to initiate the 
different kind of effort that would get me up 
again, and out of that little hollow. So I lay 
still. The last sound I had heard of my pur- 
suers was the noise that they had made crashing 
through the spruces, before I doubled back. 

How long I lay there I do not know. I must 
have been in little better than a semi-conscious 
condition for some time, and then, when my head 
allowed it, I must have fallen asleep; and I 
do not know either how long I slept. I re- 
member coming to a sort of half-wakefulness, 
and feeling for my watch could not find it. And 
I remember clearing my eyes, as best I could, 
from the grit and dust as I sat up to look round. 
The depression in which I was formed a complete 
concealment when I lay down, but was so shal- 
low that when I sat up my head came clear above 
the heather. 

It was a sight panoramic in extent that met 
my eyes. Away below me stretched the varie- 
gated country, each field with its separate tint, 
like a little square in the distance, the fresh green 
of the new springing grass on cut hayfields 
chequered the rich yellows of the ripening fields 
of corn. Dotted over the surface were the roofs 
of farm-houses, encircled by trees amid which the 
thin, blue smoke rose vapoury in the still air. 
Under the hill at my feet the creak of a cart on 
the road ascended. At intervals in the far dis- 


STEALTHY TERROR 


i95 


tance I saw the white fleecy smoke that showed 
the train working its way across the plain. Far 
above my head a lark sang and I leaned back to 
listen. The wild extravagant ecstasy of his music 
was everywhere, and it was hard to believe that 
the little dark speck I at length discerned against 
the pale blue vastness could so fill the world with 
sound. These things, and a hundred others, I 
considered as I lay in the heather all through the 
long summer day. 

I was not without alarms. Once I heard near 
me the “swish-swish” a man’s steps make in walk- 
ing through heather, and lay back, ready to 
shoot. But the steps passed on, and I know not 
whether they were the steps of a pursuer or of 
some harmless shepherd. Later, near me, a 
grouse rose suddenly with its burst of cackle that 
sounds so like jeering laughter, and for a moment 
my heart stood still; and I had to crouch low 
again, thinking it had been startled into flight by 
some one’s approach. But nobody came my way, 
and probably it was some movement of my own 
that had sent the bird scuttering. Later still I 
must have fallen asleep again for many hours, 
for when I awoke the evening was well advanced, 
and indeed here and there, away down below 
me, I could see the lighted windows of widely 
separated farm-houses. 

I was stiff and cold, for the sun had long left 
this side of the hill, and though I had taken the 
precaution of pulling enough heather to make a 


STEALTHY TERROR 


196 

bed, yet the place itself was not of the driest. But 
to be cold and sore with cramp was not what 
afflicted me most; it was my hunger, and even 
more my thirst. It was a blessed thing for me 
that my second long sleep had come when it did, 
before the worst pangs of thirst came on, for 
otherwise I do not think I could have slept at all, 
even with the sleepless previous night, and the 
exhaustion of chase behind me. Some forms of 
exhaustion, I have observed, conduce to sleep, and 
in the sleep strength is conserved, or even in 
some measure regained. But with the exhaus- 
tion that comes from thirst it is not so. Men do 
not sleep then; they go mad. 

Not, however, till darkness enfolded all the 
plain, and almost all save the farm lights had 
disappeared, did I leave my hiding-place. It was 
clearly impossible, now, to think of escape by 
train. I had no doubt at all that every station 
up and down the line for twenty miles had its 
watcher. But this did not trouble me then. They 
might guard railway stations and roads; they 
could not watch all these farms from which the 
kindly lights shone as beacons to me, and above 
all it was food and drink I wanted. 

The memory of that long descent is more or 
less dream-like. I have no clear memory of it, 
or of what befell me. I only recall the lights, at 
first far down below me, like little twinkling 
stars, as if I had indeed gone mad, and the sky 
and earth had changed positions. And then the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


197 


stars began to climb up to me, till they reached 
my own level, and shone in front of me; and 
then all merged into one that became very big, 
and near enough to stretch out my hand and 
touch. People came out and spoke to me, and 
led me inside. I told them I had been lost on 
the hills, for that is how I then thought it was. 

But after I had eaten and drunk, having noth- 
ing else than hunger and thirst the matter with 
me, I was soon as a new man, at which the good 
folk were surprised, thinking I had been wander- 
ing all day. It was a ploughman’s cottage I had 
lighted on, and the man, in his rough working 
clothes, sat and rocked a cradle with his foot, 
while his wife attended to my needs. The wake- 
ful child regarded me with staring eyes. In 
the big bed against the wall two elder children 
lay fast asleep, their faces flushed. I paid these 
good people for the meal, though the taking of 
money gave them discomfort, and left after get- 
ting from them careful directions as to the way I 
must take to reach Stonehive. 

I had of course no intention of going to Stone- 
hive, but I knew it was quite likely that some 
one, speaking English with a foreign accent, 
would come to their door asking for news of me, 
and so I thought it well to risk nothing. In point 
of fact I set off in the other direction at once. 
For there came to me as if by inspiration the 
scheme by which I was to throw my pursuers off 
the trail, and by which I was to get a good start 


STEALTHY TERROR 


198 

by rail. But it was no railway station I sought. 
I remembered that some miles south there lay 
a lonely spot that was once famous in the days 
when two great railway companies ran races be- 
tween London and the North. 

This spot was the place where the two lines 
joined into one for the remainder of the journey. 
There was nothing there but the signal-man’s 
cabin. In the years of which I speak that cabin 
was a famous place, for the signal-man it was 
who decided which route won for the day, passing 
on the train which was “belled” first, detaining 
its rival till the first was clear ahead. Yet though 
these exhilarating races were long ended, trains 
were still sometimes held up for either line to 
clear at such places — fish trains, mineral and 
goods, even the stately London train itself. If 
one did stop it would be hard if I did not get 
aboard. 

There was great heartening in the thought; 
and once I got on the main road it briskened my 
going finely. The night was fine and still, the 
stars bright overhead, and in this agricultural 
country-side, where people are early abed, the 
road was empty save for an occasional young 
ploughman making for home after an evening’s 
courtship at some neighbouring farm. But all 
the same I was wary of all travellers, and took 
the other side of the hedges, especially when I 
heard the sound of an approaching car. It must 
have been about ten when I came to the dangerous 


STEALTHY TERROR 


199 


spot. This was the Westwater Bridge. Here 
the road crosses the river of that name just before 
you come to the junction I mentioned. It was a 
good point for them to watch, for the river is 
both rapid and deep. I soon saw it was not for- 
gotten. Approaching cautiously from behind the 
hedge, at first the way seemed clear, for there 
was no one on the rise of the bridge; but just as 
I prepared to jump back on to the road again 
I glanced along the arch of the bridge and saw 
the dark figure of a man who seemed to be lean- 
ing on the parapet, looking down into the water. 
But for the fact that I was in the field, and on that 
side of the road, I should never have seen him 
till I was fairly on the bridge, and then it would 
have been too late. 

I crawled rapidly away. There was still the 
railway bridge. Should I try that? The river 
there was shallower and broader and the bridge 
much longer. As I debated with myself a train 
went thundering over, and I could see the stoker 
coaling the furnace, a column of light ascending 
obliquely into the dark from the open furnace 
door. I dared not risk it. This bridge would 
not be forgotten, and if, as was almost certain, it 
was at the far end they watched there would be 
no retreat possible, for the bridge was very long. 
So I took to the water higher up, and save for 
the wetting it was not so very bad, as it was only 
for perhaps five yards I had to swim. It was 
thus that I came to Kilaber junction and sat down 


200 


STEALTHY TERROR 


on the embankment, near the south signals, to 
wait for my luck. 

I was very cold in my wet clothes. The signal- 
box with its glass sides alight looked very cheer- 
ful, and I could hear the night signal-man whis- 
tling to himself as he moved about at his work. 
From time to time a bell would ring, and there 
would be a clang of metal as he worked the lev- 
ers which adjusted the points, and down and up 
the line I would see a signal light change from 
red to white or green. But always the line seemed 
to be clear that night, for nothing was ever 
pulled up. I was fairly beginning to know despair 
when the third goods train thundered past, and 
I was considering if I ought not to be going on, 
lest daylight should find me still there, when 
close on its heels, I heard the low rumble of a 
following train, away back on the Westwater 
Bridge, and knew that it was scarcely possible it 
would find the road clear so soon after the other. 
Hope rose higher when I saw the home signal 
remain red. On came the train; but presently, 
sure enough, there was a grinding from the brakes, 
sparks flew out from the wheels, and with a 
clang of the buffers that went all the length of 
the train, the big engine came to a standstill un- 
der the lighted signal-box windows. It was not, 
alas, a general goods train, in which there are 
usually some uncovered waggons, but a fast fish 
train. I could hear an interchange of banter 
between engine and signal-box, and when I had 


STEALTHY TERROR 


201 


run down the train and mounted the guard’s van, 
the official in charge was leaning out of the other 
door, watching and listening. He never heard 
me, as I slipped inside and sat down on the bench. 
Then a bell rang in the signal-box, a perfunc- 
tory touch on the whistle, and we began to move. 
The guard hung out of his van to shout some 
pleasantry to the signal-man, and then turned 
round. 

“My God!” he cried, seeing me. 

“Where does this train go to?” I asked him. 

“What do you want here?” he asked, anger 
rising. 

It was a case for impudence. 

“If you are asking me about the thing I 
most long for, I may tell you it is a good 
smoke.” 

He stared at me, for a moment I think he took 
me for a lunatic; but then he laughed. He was 
a little, rosy-complexioned man, with a scanty 
flaxen moustache like an old tooth-brush. 

“Well, if you have na’ got cheek enough for 
a dozen!” 

I told him I was very sorry to have to invade 
his van, but I had been lost on the hills, had 
been through a river, and in danger of my life, 
and that any Christian would light the stove that 
stood in the centre of the van and let me dry 
myself. 

“Ay,” he remarked, scanning me, “it may be 
as you say: ye are no tramp, for ye speak like a 


202 


STEALTHY TERROR 


gentleman, and yer clothes, though in bad con- 
deetion, are harmonious. But we’re no allowed 
to carry passengers, and I must put ye off at our 
first stop. By rights I ought to hand you over 
to the police forbye.” 

All this time he was on his hands and knees 
before the little stove, getting the fire going. And 
before it I sat, and got dry while the train bowled 
along into Forfarshire, and we talked when we 
could. 

“Where’s your first stop?” I asked. 

“Berwick is the first place we’re booked to 
stop at,” he answered, grinning. “It’s a fish train 
ye’re on, ye ken.” 

“I knew it was a fish train,” I said. 

“What!” he cried. “Dinna say ye smelt my 
train already. But Loard, what would ye expect 
else, when we’ve been pulled up thrice in just 
twenty miles!” 

This was his semi-sad, humorous sarcasm, 
evoked by slow local goods trains which blocked 
the way, and compelled signal-men to fling the 
red light before his perishable cargo. 

All the same we seemed to find little ahead of 
us after that, and the fast train flashed through 
lonely and dimly lit stations, roared into tunnels 
and rattled over high bridges, in a‘ way that 
rocked the van from side to side continuously, 
and that did promise to fulfil the guard’s boast — 
that his fish would be in time for the sleeping 
Londoner’s breakfast. His spirits, like mine, be- 


STEALTHY TERROR 


203 


gan to rise with every landmark passed. Lost 
time can be made up on these trains, where the 
scheduled stops are few. But, alas, we had no 
sooner crossed the Tay than there came a slack- 
ening. Something in front again! 

“Dom!” cried the guard. “This is just 
awfu’.” 

I asked him where we were. 

“Just outside Thornton Junction,’’ he an- 
swered. “I’ll have to put ye off if we stop, ye 
ken ; so I hope you’ll gang gently. It’s my 
duty,” he explained, looking at me questioningly. 

Thornton Junction ! It was good enough. In 
any case it was not possible to go all the way to 
London on that train ; and I did think that I had 
covered my trail pretty effectually, this time. So 
I reassured the little man as to there being no 
need of muscular effort on his part to get rid of 
me; and when we did pull up I climbed down, 
after we had shaken hands. He waved to me a 
kindly farewell as his train moved on, after I had 
reached the top of the embankment. I thought 
this was final, but there was another clatter of 
buffers, and another dead stop. 

“Dom!” he cried aloud, almost in anguish. 
“What aboot my fish noo?” 

“It will be in time for supper anyway!” I 
comforted him. 

“Ay,” he answered gloomily, “for the penny 
fish suppers in the East End.” 

This sally made me laugh heartily, and, without 


204 STEALTHY TERROR 

joining in, he watched me, leaning out of his van- 
door, arms folded: 

“Ye’re a queer kind of a fish yersel’, ye ken,” 
he remarked, nodding. “Cornin’ out o’ the watter 
and on to my train the way ye did. Did ye ex- 
pect me to believe yon story?” The train began 
to move again, and he bent out further. “Look 
here, Mr. MacTavish,” he called in a stage whis- 
per, “ye’ve been on the spree I doubt. Gang 
straight home, my lad, and keep aff the drink. 
But if so be ye canna resist so great a temptation, 
keep aff the railway when ye’re on it.” 

This time his wave was final, and soon the 
little red tail-lamp on his van was no more than 
a speck in the distance. 

When I had covered the distance between the 
junction and St. Andrews, the first sound I heard 
from the silent old grey town was the church clock 
striking three. The whole place lay still like a 
deserted city, and it took me a long while ere I 
lighted on the Ranfurly Road, which was where 
Miss Thompson lived. It was a road of big old 
grey houses that would stand solid when their 
enclosing shrubberies writhed and fretted in the 
wild east winds to which they were exposed. At 
this hour both winds and people were equally 
asleep, and the only sound that met my ear was 
the low, regular, pulsation of the sea on the beach. 

For a while I walked up and down outside the 
house, wondering what I could do, and not see- 
ing any immediate course of action open to me 


STEALTHY TERROR 


205 


that was other than selfish. Could I dare to 
waken the household at that hour? I hadn’t 
considered the point at all on my journey, but 
now the plain fact is that I was overcome by the 
old ladylike respectability of the town, and it 
seemed monstrous to start ringing bells in such a 
place, at such an hour. Miss Thompson had 
told me little of her family. I knew no more 
than that she lived with a sister much older than 
herself. Of this sister’s character and disposi- 
tion I knew nothing; but now I pictured her as a 
rather old-maidish person, prim and proper, and 
in strong contrast to Margarita, who had been 
made something of a rebel, I supposed, by force 
of reaction either against the old-maidish sister, 
or the old-maidish town, or both. 

I had been walking up and down awhile, a 
prey to indecision, when I was startled indeed by 
seeing the door open and Miss Thompson herself 
appear. She stood looking at me, never saying a 
word. Her hair was hanging about her should- 
ers, and she wore a dark dressing-gown. Her 
dark hair made her face look very bright, and 
her eyes were shining queerly. I went up to her 
and said: 

“This is very strange that you should come 
down just when I was wanting to see you.” 

“I knew you were there,” she answered, look- 
ing straight into my face. 

This reply made me stare back for I was think- 
ing it was very possible she was ill, after all she 


20 6 


STEALTHY TERROR 


had gone through, which was a thought new to 
me, for the likelihood of it had never before en- 
tered into my mind. 

“Oh, there’s nothing mysterious about it,” she 
cried. “I do not sleep very soundly just now, 
and well — you were whistling that Dance from 
‘Henry the Eighth.’ ” 

“Well, what about it?” I asked, more puzzled 
than before. 

“It’s what you were whistling after we caught 
that man in the flat in Berlin.” 

“But anybody else might be whistling that 
air,” I argued. “It’s pretty well known. You 
might have had a disappointment, getting up so 
early,” which was a foolish thing to say if you 
come to think of it. 

Miss Thompson smiled. 

“Anyone might be whistling it here at four 
o’clock in the morning; but it’s not likely they 
would make the same mistakes in the same 
places.” 

And I could do nothing but laugh at myself. 
She drew me inside the door, noting all the stains 
and rents, for my long flight among the heather 
and gorse of the Knock had left many traces. 

“It’s the second time I’ve come to your door 
like a ragged beggar-man,” I said. 

She flushed a little, and laughed, as she took 
hold of my arm. 

“Come away then, and this time I hope you 
will not bring in as much trouble at your heels.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


207 


So I gave her an account of all my adven- 
tures, telling her of the pedlar on the bridge, the 
attack on the house, the day I had on the hills, 
and my travels on the fish-express, leaving out 
nothing, saving the discovery I had made about 
Little Eitel’s paper; for that detail I kept back 
awhile, remembering the humiliation of our part- 
ing. The fact is, I was hoping to be questioned 
about it and by my reply make an impression that 
would re-establish my damaged amour-propre. 
But the queer girl never mentioned the paper, and 
when I had ended wished to send me up- 
stairs to sleep. I told her I did not feel at 
all like sleeping, but if she could shelter me till 
night, when I would leave to catch the London 
train, I would gladly rest later in the day, for 
I knew that the less I was seen in public the 
better. 

“You do not think they can trace you here?” 
she asked. 

I told her it was hard to tell since they had 
traced me so far, but I did not see how it was 
humanly possible, for there was but one man who 
had set eyes on me between the ploughman’s house 
and her own door. This seemed to content her, 
and set her thinking. At last the question came 
for which I had waited : 

“That paper, have you still got it?” I touched 
my breast pocket. Now, I said to myself, I’ll 
make her see how foolish was her pity of me. 


208 


STEALTHY TERROR 


She hesitated, and then continued: “Did you 
ever think of letting them have it?” 

“Never,” I said. “Never for a moment.” 

“But it is such a trifling thing, and they set such 
store by it as to be ready to take your life to get it.” 

“Trifling!” I cried. “Do you call that paper 
trifling?” 

“Well, isn’t it — a child’s drawing of sheep and 
trees and other animals?” 

It was my hour, and I said: 

“I am afraid, Miss Thompson, you do not 
understand the significance of those ‘sheep and 
trees and other animals.’ When you saw them 
in Edinburgh I am afraid you were simple-minded 
enough to take that paper at its face-value.” 
She opened her eyes wide at this. “If that 
paper is a thing on which they set such store as 
to be ready to take a man’s life, and risk their 
own, to get it back, surely it cannot be called a 
trifling thing.” 

She was an argumentative little thing. 

“Valuable for some mysterious reason to them 
perhaps, but surely trifling to you.” 

Upon that I took out the paper and, unfold- 
ing it, laid it on the table under her eyes. 

“Judge for yourself whether it is trifling,” I 
said. 

She scanned it earnestly enough, puckering up 
her eyes. 

“I see no sense in it at all,” she said. “It’s 
just a child’s haphazard drawings.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


209 


“Come, Miss Thompson! The thing posi- 
tively cries aloud with meaning. Does it not 
strike you as strange, to begin with, that this little 
Eitel left the date of his father’s birthday blank, 
to be filled in later, after his father was born? 
And that eagle floating on the top — I suppose 
you’ve seen that breed of eagle before?” 

“On the German flag!” she interjected. 

“And the dead lion at the bottom.” 

“The British lion!” 

“Yes; and the transfixed heart — What is the 
heart of the Empire?” 

“London!” She was eager enough now. 
“What does it mean? Oh, tell me!” 

“It is a scheme for the invasion of England 
from three separate points, as diabolical as it is 
clever. But there’s a lot in it I don’t yet under- 
stand.” 

We were both gazing on the fateful drawing 
when a light suddenly broke in on me, and I 
cried: 

“My heavens! I see it now — that stone on 
the top of the mountain is not threatening the 
church. It is not a mountain at all, it is not a 
stone, it is not a church, and those archery butts 
have nothing to do with the arrows!” 


CHAPTER X 


HAT same evening I caught the late Lon- 



don mail train at the junction. During 


the day Miss Thompson, whose elder sis- 
ter was away on a visit to friends, sent off several 
wires on my behalf, to which, with one exception, 
I received satisfactory replies. This exception 
was the message I received from my mother, tell- 
ing me that the prisoner had escaped. Sh^herself 
was going to my uncle’s in Aberdeen for awhile. 
As to the escape of Dewinski I was not sure 
whether to be glad or sorry. His disappearance, 
at any rate, saved my home from a publicity that 
would be unwelcome to my mother, and I was dis- 
posed to believe that it would be better for the 
whole affair to be handled by the Whitehall Office. 
Still, Dewinski’s was the master brain, and I 
had need to be very wary now that he was free 


again. 


The first mark of respect I paid to Dewinski’s 
recovered freedom was to leave the train before 
it ran into King’s Cross. Knowing that such 
trains are frequently pulled up for a minute or 
so by the traffic of the London suburban trains, I 


210 


STEALTHY TERROR 


2 1 1 


took my chance when It came, getting out at 
Wood Green, and from there going by taxi to 
town. As it was still too early to seek for an 
interview with the Minister, being only 8.30, I 
made a leisurely breakfast at a quiet hotel in 
Bloomsbury, and while reading the newspaper in 
the process I learned with satisfaction that the 
Minister was in town: 

“Mr. Horniman yesterday made two visits to 
Downing Street, the first, about noon, was very 
brief; but from the second at 3.30 the Right 
Hon. gentleman did not return to the Whitehall 
Office till 5 o’clock.” 

Being quite unversed in the affairs of political 
life, I had no idea as to why such visits called for 
report in the Press; but I supposed there must 
be some significance attached to them, and to their 
duration. What struck me was that I might 
count on putting my paper into the hands of the 
Minister himself. At 10 o’clock therefore I tele- 
phoned from the hotel to the Whitehall Office 
and learned that the great man had not yet ar- 
rived but was expected every minute. What 
would be the best hour to come and see him? 
Well, who was I? The Minister did not have set 
hours for consultation, like a medical specialist; 
surely I knew that? Difficult to see him? Not 
the slightest difficulty if I had an appointment. 
If I hadn’t — impossible. I hadn’t an appoint- 


212 


STEALTHY TERROR 


ment! Well, write for one, or get a letter of in- 
troduction from some one known to Mr. Horni- 
man. Then I told them my business was of such 
insistency and gravity that it positively could not 
wait on the ordinary routine of approach. The 
fellow at the other end appeared to be getting im- 
patient, for I was told dryly that The Office was 
not unaccustomed to business of national impor- 
tance, and only occasionally dealt with trifles by 
way of pastime. 

On that, I said something forcible to myself 
which was overheard. 

“Tut, tut!” said the junior clerk, as he cut off 
communication, and, I suppose, went back to play 
at noughts and crosses. 

I got on the telephone again, this time with 
a Member with whom I had a slight acquaintance, 
and was lucky enough to find him at breakfast — 
there had been a late sitting of the House on the 
previous night. I recalled myself to his memory, 
telling him I was very anxious to see Mr. Horni- 
man, and had the notion that he might use his 
influence with some personage to obtain an intro- 
duction for me ; but luckily he cut in before I had 
finished, saying that if I called round to his club 
in an hour he himself would leave a letter for me, 
which would secure me the desired admission. 
I thanked him heartily, and he expressed regret 
that he was prevented by a pressing engagement 
from seeing me, and, before ringing off, asked 
very kindly after my Uncle John, saying he had 


STEALTHY TERROR 


213 


not run across him lately, which was not wonder- 
ful, as my Uncle John had been dead for four 
years. I did not remind him, however, of that 
fact, since I was very sensible of his kindness in 
being so ready to serve one who belonged to a 
family no longer resident in his constituency. 

It was with a certain inward glow of content- 
ment that, having called for and duly received the 
promised letter, I turned my face towards the 
Whitehall Office. Naturally enough, now that 
my job was nearing completion, my thoughts ran 
back on the details of its history. Perhaps I 
hadn’t done so very badly. It had been a good 
education for me — a gain in subtlety and capa- 
bility for practical action. In fact I’m not sure, 
at that moment, that I was not rather regretful 
at the thought of being about to give up my con- 
trol of the affair, of having to hand over little 
Eitel’s drawing to others. Yes, I thought I had 
handled the affair with some neatness and precis- 
ion, at any rate towards the end. That escape on 
the fish-train, for instance, how that must have 
left them guessing! I whistled happily and walked 
on. Oh, it is a great thing to feel the sense 
of mastery that accompanies a well-finished job. 
Alas, all too soon I was to have an emphatic re- 
minder that such thoughts were premature! 

My course had lain from King Street to St. 
James’s Square and the Mall to the top of White- 
hall, and I was cutting across that wide thorough- 
fare from about the Horseguards to reach the 


214 


STEALTHY TERROR 


Whitehall Office a little further down. It was 
foolish, in such a place of fast moving traffic, to 
indulge in a brown study. There was no excuse 
for me, I had had my warning. Again it was a 
shout that brought me to my senses. I looked 
up and there was a car almost on the top of me. 
I tried to jump clear, but the wood blocks were 
slippery, and I fell. 

It was all over in a second. A policeman and 
a passing carter lifted me up and took me to the 
island. 

“Great Jerusalem!” said the carter. “I never 
saw anything like that in my life !” 

“What happened?” I asked, feeling I ought 
to be dead. 

“Narrowest thing I ever saw, sir,” said the 
policeman. “Car put on its brakes as you went 
down, and it did a swerving skid right in the di- 
rection you lay. Never touched you at all, I 
don’t think. Move on there.” 

This last to the circle of open-mouthed gazers 
that had gathered round. The carter went back 
to his team. I had been a fool, and was very 
angry in consequence. 

“Look here,” I said to the policeman, “that 
car tried to run me down!” 

He looked at me and smiled. 

“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “That car’s been 
up and down here ever since I came on duty. 
Waiting for some Gov’mint official.” 

This did not in the least convince me. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


215 


“Why didn’t it stop then?” I asked hotly. 

“Knew you ’adn’t been touched — good job for 
you too, what with the brakes on an’ that. 
Now,” he continued, finality in his tone, “I’d 
advise you to be getting on, and next time not 
depend on gymnastics to save your neck: the 
age of miracles is past, and don’t you forget 
it.” 

Of course it may have been as he said. 

The Whitehall Office is, as every one knows, a 
handsome structure nobly proportioned. Erected 
some five years before, to the beauty of its pro- 
portions there was now being added beauty of 
detail, which promised to make it the finest Gov- 
ernment building in London. Shaken as I was 
by the incident just related I was glad, before 
presenting myself to the Minister, to regain com- 
posure by a short inspection of the work then 
proceeding. Along its front were rows of scaf- 
folding like balconies, and on these sculptors were 
working. I had always taken some interest in 
architecture and was drawn to examine a com- 
pleted Renaissance entablature of fine scroll work 
on one of the windows under the scaffolding. 
Seeming to discern a want of proportion in this 
work, I stepped back to obtain a better view, 
and on the instant I did so something struck the 
pavement at my feet. It was a sculptor’s heavy 
wooden mallet, and it landed on the very spot 
I had the moment before occupied. Involuntarily 
I took a step backwards again, and as I did so a 


21 6 


STEALTHY TERROR 


steel chisel crashed on the pavement. I saw no 
one on the scaffolding. 

Once inside the hall I asked the commission- 
aire if the sculptors were Germans. 

“No, sir,” he answered. “Austrians from 
Budapest.” 

“I knew they were not English,” I said. 

“How was that, sir?” he asked politely. 
“From their appearance, I suppose.” 

“From their clumsiness,” I answered. “They 
nearly dropped a mallet on my head just now.” 

And as he smiled at this as a mere pleasantry 
the messenger returned to conduct me within. 

My letter of introduction, after I had passed 
through several hands, secured me admission into 
the presence of Mr. Clarence Beilby, the Perma- 
nent Secretary. He was a man in the fifties with 
a very high and very bald forehead and gold 
spectacles. When I entered he was busy at a 
roll-top desk, and motioned me silently with a 
wave of his quill pen to a chair, on which for a 
space I had leisure to examine the contents of the 
room. In quite a little while he turned. 

“Well, Mr.— er.” 

“Abercromby.” 

“You wish to see me on important business, I 
believe.” 

His manner, if a trifle grandiose, was not un- 
kind. 

“Sir, I had a letter from Mr. Burness and I 
had hoped to see Mr. Homiman.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


217 


At the mention of Mr. Burness he smiled. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Abercrumley, but who is 
Mr. Burness? I don't seem to recall ” 

“The Member for South-West Kincardine- 
shire,” I answered. 

“Ah yes!” Mr. Beilby remarked, in a vague 
tone, that gave me the impression that he was 
hearing of Mr. Burness, and even of South-West 
Kincardineshire for the first time. “Well, you 
know, it is impossible to see Mr. Horniman now. 
For one thing he never touches anything but the' 
most important matters, and those only after they 
have passed through my hands.” 

Knowing I was about to startle him, I said 
quietly : 

“Surely a matter that touches the very exist- 
ence of the Empire is of sufficient importance 
to ” 

“Is it a plot you have discovered, with spies 
in it?” he interrupted twiddling his pen between 
his fingers. 

“It is,” I said. “But I confess it astonishes 
me that you should have heard of it already.” 

Mr. Beilby laughed at my expression of amaze- 
ment. 

“Oh, to tell you the truth people are always 
bringing us plots they have unearthed. Mostly 
they are wicked designs of Germany on the in- 
tegrity of the British Empire. Is yours by any 
chance a German plot?” 

This was horrible. I began to tremble. 


218 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“It is,” I answered meekly. 

Mr. Beilby had once or twice already glanced 
at the clock, and now yawning slightly he stood 
up. 

“There now you see, Mr. Abbots-Crumley? 
If we bothered ourselves here about German 
plots, we should have no time for anything else.” 

With an effort I drew myself together and pro- 
tested : 

“Sir, but this thing is real and imminent; you 
dare not dismiss it so !” 

Mr. Beilby had touched a bell. Now he turned 
back to me. 

“Come, come, sir! I have not been bad to 
you, if you only knew it. IVe given you the last 
quarter of an hour before my lunch; and very 
few who come here with German plots and stories 
of spies get my length.” 

In another minute I should see myself being 
shown out into the street. The case was desper- 
ate indeed ! At this moment an inner door opened 
and a gentleman strolled in carrying a newspaper. 
For a moment I had a wild hope that he might 
be the Minister himself, and sought confirma- 
tion in a glance at his face to identify it with 
the portraits of the Minister that appeared al- 
most daily in the public press. But the smooth- 
cut features of the man before me bore no re- 
semblance to the almost cherubic countenance of 
the great man himself. Hesitating for a moment 
when he saw a stranger present, and then seeing 


STEALTHY TERROR 


219 


that we were on our feet he concluded that the 
interview was at an end. Mr. Beilby made haste 
to confirm the impression: 

“Good morning, Mr. Abercrumley.” 

I turned helplessly away towards the clerk who 
stood holding the door. 

“Oh, Beilby, do you see that fool Ashton has 
been talking again about the German menace. 
Brought you the report — amuse you at lunch.” 

Then anger took a hold of me. I wheeled 
round and drew out the Little Eitel document. 

“Sir, if I were permitted to show you the con- 
tents of this paper I think I could convince you 
that though this Ashton, whoever he is, may be 
a fool, he is not a fool because he talks of the 
German menace.” 

The new-comer shot an astonished glance at 
me and then at Mr. Clarence Beilby. That gentle- 
man with a whimsical smile in which I detected 
some malice waved his hand towards the other 
and said: 

“This is Mr. Buncombe, Mr. Horniman’s pri- 
vate secretary. There is no reason why you 
should not show him your documents. He is 
greatly interested in such matters.” 

And as the private secretary said something 
under his breath the Permanent Secretary depart- 
ed for his lunch, and left us alone. Mr. Bun- 
combe took out his watch irresolutely. 

“I have an appointment myself to lunch with 
a friend in five minutes,” he said. 


220 


STEALTHY TERROR 


I had a suspicion that this was untrue, and 
went straight to the hearth-rug on which he stood. 

“Do you know that to bring that paper here 
I have many times risked my life?” 

The fellow whistled. 

“You don’t say so!” 

“I do say so,” was my calm answer. “And if 
I am not mistaken there were two attempts on 
my life outside your office this morning.” 

“Well, well,” Mr. Buncombe murmured. 

“Oh, I understand, you think me deluded and 
all that, a man with a monomania, like Ashton, 
about German spies.” 

“Not at all,” he said. “Only, well — you see, 
no one has ever tried to murder me outside the 
Office.” 

“But that may be because no one thinks it 
worth while,” I answered warmly. 

Mr. Buncombe looked at me, nodding his 
head. 

“That’s not so bad, you know, not so bad. 
Well, this paper of yours must be a thing worth 
seeing, since they were ready to sacrifice your life 
for it, eh? Let’s have a look.” 

At the first glance Mr. Buncombe let fall on 
the drawing his countenance expressed utter 
amazement. Then he smiled. 

“I think, sir, you’ve taken the wrong docu- 
ment from your pocket. This no doubt is your 
little boy’s work. Very creditable, I’m sure.” 

But when I assured him there was no mistake, 


STEALTHY TERROR 


221 


he stared at me almost aghast, and lifted the 
paper from the table again with a hand that shook. 

“There is a hidden meaning in those figures,” 
I said. 

I went over them one by one, and he seemed 
to be intensely interested. I showed him the sig- 
nificance of each figure, that is, so far as I had 
penetrated; and when I had finished what must 
he do but draw me into his own private room, 
which adjoined that of the Permanent Secretary. 
This was a triumph for me! He had lost his 
lunch, he remarked, but this was far better than 
any lunch. Once we were seated he got me to 
tell him the whole long story of my adventures, 
from the first night at the Cafe Rosenkrantz 
down to my narrow escape from death at the door 
of the Whitehall Office. He was a most patient 
listener, seldom interrupting with a question, and 
making no remark beyond that which was con- 
veyed by an occasional wise nod of the head, at 
critical junctures in my narrative. I began to see 
that I had done the perspicacity of the Office an 
injustice in thought; certainly no man could have 
desired a more intelligent auditor than I had in 
Mr. Buncombe. 

Long before I had finished I heard Mr. 
Clarence Beilby, back from lunch, moving about 
in his room. Mr. Buncombe heard him also, 
for when I had done he got up, saying it was 
essential that the Permanent Secretary should be 
informed at once. So, giving me a cigar, he en- 


222 


STEALTHY TERROR 


tered his colleague’s room. He was a good while 
closeted there, and there was considerable in- 
terchange of talk between the Permanent and 
private secretaries, for though what they said was 
not, of course, audible to me I could distinguish 
the somewhat harsh staccato tones of Mr. Beilby 
from the other’s soft and rounded utterance. 

Eventually the door opened, and Mr. Bun- 
combe brought in Mr. Beilby. I was prepared 
not to be hard on Mr. Beilby — for I expected 
him to be rather chastened and crestfallen — Mr. 
Buncombe had been so decent. Mr. Beilby, how- 
ever, was far from being crestfallen: 

“What’s all this nonsense I hear about spies 
and conspiracies, Mr. er ?” 

“Abercromby is my name,” I answered stiff- 
ly. “And I’ve no idea what you mean.” 

“Tut, tut, sir! Try to disabuse your mind of 
the hallucination that England is overrun with 
spies. Where are those pictures you spoke of, 
Buncombe?” 

I took the paper from my pocket and handed 
it to him in silence. The Permanent Secretary 
laid it on the table and bent over it. 

“This is just a child’s drawing. Anyone who 
could find a scheme for the invasion of the coun- 
try in this could find one in the story of Jack and 
the Beanstalk.” 

It made me almost groan aloud to hear the 
man! Must I go over it all again? I got really 
angry. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


223 


“Your obstinate blindness, Mr. Beilby, is a 
proof of these men’s acuteness.” 

He was very angry indeed at this remark of 
mine, and flung my paper aside with a gesture of 
disgust. 

“Spies!” he cried, thumping the table with 
his clenched fist. “Don’t you know, Mr. Aber- 
cromby, that there are no spies in England! 
Didn’t you see that the Minister assured the 
House of Commons the other day that there are 
no spies in this country? How can anyone dare 
to talk of spies after that assurance. Look here” 
— taking the paper from the floor — “all this spy 
business and scaremongering, I’ll tell you what 
it means. You, I believe, are outside the political 
world; you have been abroad for some years, I 
understand. Well, sir, all this scaremongering 
and tales of spying is simply a dodge in the 
political game. I don’t say it’s an illegitimate 
dodge, though it often verges on the point of 
being so, but a dodge it is. No sane man of any 
political party really believes that there are any 
spies. No one has any use for spies, except a 
certain low type of novelist, and a certain low 
type of journalist, and a certain low type of poli- 
tician. Now, I put it to you as a sensible man, 
Mr. Abercrumley, why should a level-headed, 
practical nation like Germany, with whom we are 
on the happiest terms here, waste public money 
in spying on her friends?” 

Mr. Beilby completed this indignant speech by 


224 


STEALTHY TERROR 


mopping his bald and wearied forehead, and wip- 
ing his gold spectacles. I looked to Mr. Bun- 
combe to refute this reasoning, but that gentle- 
man’s back was to me, and he was engaged in a 
further study of the sinister drawing. Knowing 
Mr. Beilby better than I did, probably he knew 
the uselessness of argument. Nevertheless I ap- 
pealed to him as the one man there who at least 
understood. 

“What do you say to all this, Mr. Bun- 
combe ?” 

“Oh,” he said, without bothering to turn, “don’t 
ask me: I am for deeds, not words.” 

It was my own thought! The remark seemed 
to annoy the Permanent Secretary greatly. He 
took possession of the drawing in no gentle fash- 
ion, and beckoned me over to the table in the 
window. 

“Come, and let me hear what you say the 
drawing means.” 

So I went through it all again, explaining as 
much as I knew carefully, and in the simple words 
that one uses to a small boy. I had the hope that 
it would annoy him. I explained the significance 
of the dead lion, the eagle, the heart and the ar- 
rows. I explained that the stone was not a stone, 
nor the church a church, nor the mountain a moun- 
tain, but had to admit I was not sure what they 
were. I pointed out the missing date of the birth- 
day in the inscription. Both officials listened very 
carefully, and occasionally exchanged glances; 


STEALTHY TERROR 


225 

so I finished not without hope of having made 
some impression on Mr. Clarence Beilby. 

“You see, Beilby,” said Buncombe, when I 
stopped. 

The Permanent Secretary took my arm sooth- 
ingly and began to point out to me how this read- 
ing of mine was not the only possible one : 

“For instance, as to the missing date, it is quite 
likely a small boy would not know the date of 
his father’s birthday; I am sure my own boys 
do not know mine, or indeed any one’s except 
their own. This little boy left the blank for his 
mother to fill it in. And the heart pierced with 
arrows, that clearly means that the father is ab- 
sent; and the three arrows show the number of the 
family. The eagle which is German certainly 
shows that it is German hearts that are wounded. 
Probably there had been a quarrel, a domestic 
disagreement between husband and wife. Not an 
uncommon event, even in England; but here it 
had clearly been a disagreement of a very serious 
nature. Let us even say that it was a ferocious 
disagreement and so, probably at the instigation 
of the now sorrowing mother, the dead lion is 
inserted to show that all animosity is dead. And 
that church threatened by the stone on the hill 
above it, Mr. Abercrumley, shows us that the 
separation had disastrous results on their religious 
life, threatening to destroy their faith. And these 
sheep grazing peacefully around the heart, what 
else can they stand for but a prophecy of the 


226 


STEALTHY TERROR 


tranquil domestic felicity that will ensue upon a 
reconciliation. There they are all at home, Mr. 
Abercrumley, all four — father, mother, and two 
children. See? Sentimental I grant you,” Mr. 
Beilby concluded, “but then every one knows 
that the Germans are a sentimental, kindly, pious 
and simple race.” 

“It is very plausible,” I answered, somewhat 
staggered. “But it was doubtless meant so to be. 
With my own experiences in memory, however, 
Mr. Beilby, I know my reading is the right one.” 

He cast up his eyes, as if beseeching patience 
for himself. 

“Come, come, Mr. Abercrumley!” he expostu- 
lated. “Didn’t I see further into the thing than 
you yourself did? Haven’t I interpreted figures 
for which you could find no significance? 
What, for example, do you find in the four 
sheep?” 

Now it was true I had said nothing of the 
sheep. I did not like to. Even then I hesitated; 
and he misunderstood. 

“Come, you see you can import into them 
nothing in harmony with your theory of an in- 
vasion,” he urged; and he was so pleased at hav- 
ing discovered a weakness, as he supposed, in my 
interpretation that he recovered his good spirits 
and became even playful. “Would you by any 
chance suggest that these animals are wolves in 
sheep’s clothing who have fired the arrows at our 
Empire’s heart?” he laughed. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


227 


“I don’t think so,” I said. “To me the sig- 
nificance is as obvious as to-day I find it to be true 
in fact.” 

“What do they stand for then?” Mr. Beilby 
insisted, tapping the paper with his forefinger. 

At that my scruples vanished. 

“They stand for you, Mr. Beilby, and for all 
who are like you. For those who, set to defend 
the Empire, eat of the fat pastures of office, and 
bleat of peace to the Empire’s enemies. Ay, and 
the sheep stand for me, too, and for all my fel- 
low countrymen who put you where you are, and 
put our trust in you!” 

After that there was silence in the room, a 
silence that could be felt. 

“Have you any doubt now?” asked Mr. Bun- 
combe softly. 

“None,” said Mr. Beilby. 

They both went out of the room, and I won- 
dered! My speech had been rather direct, not 
to say rude. I was not unaware of that, but 
my reception had rattled me; and the self-suf- 
ficient officialdom that could so blandly expect 
me to surrender my facts, which were founded 
on positive, bitter, and personal experiences, the 
moment they advanced theories and assumptions 
which had no basis at all — that was a strain under 
which my natural inclination for politeness per- 
ished. Politeness ! When the glamour of an of- 
ficial position renders men more stupid than Na- 
ture made them politeness ceases to be a virtue for 


228 


STEALTHY TERROR 


honest men. I could indeed congratulate myself 
on the good effect of my bluntness since it seemed 
to have carried conviction to Mr. Beilby, whose 
answer to his colleague’s question was in the nega- 
tive. 

So I waited in patience, hopeful that at last 
my ally Mr. Buncombe had gone to place the 
matter before his chief. In the interval I helped 
myself to one of the private secretary’s excellent 
cigars, and studied anew that lower and much 
more enigmatical half of little Eitel’s paper. I 
felt sure that if I could have read the combined 
figures and symbols it would have carried con- 
viction even to Mr. Beilby. It was maddening 
that I could not, for I felt sure that their secret 
was one of those obvious secrets that lie on the 
surface, and suddenly, the right angle of view 
being taken, blaze into intelligibility. Their dis- 
guise, I felt, was simplicity, not complexity; their 
secret was wrapped up in obviousness, not in ob- 
scurity. 

In the middle of all this thought the door re- 
opened and Messrs. Beilby and Buncombe re- 
appeared. Not alone. They were accompanied 
by a policeman. As I had more than half 
expected the Minister himself, I was astonished to 
a degree. 

“This is the gentleman,” said Mr. Beilby. 

The policeman advanced upon me. I rose in 
indignation : 

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked. 


STEALTHY TERROR 229 

“Now, now!” said the officer, laying a hand 
on my arm. 

“Sir,” I said, addressing Mr. Beilby, “there 
is no need for you to call in force to expel me 
from this place. Now that I perceive you to be 
beyond reach of enlightenment from merely 
human sources I will leave this place gladly 
enough.” 

“It is no question of expulsion, Mr. Aber- 
crumley,” Mr. Buncombe interrupted. “We can- 
not allow you to wander abroad possessed of such 
delusions. But your friends will be communicat- 
ed with, and you will be kindly treated mean- 
while.” Mr. Beilby nodded his agreement. 
“And,” he added soothingly, “we are not quite 
sure that your present unhappy condition of mind 
is not of a temporary character.” 

“You think I am insane!” I gasped. 

“Not insane,” said the Permanent Secretary, 
“but, well — in a highly imaginative condition — 
mentally upset — your severe studies abroad, you 
know.” 

Then I threw up the sponge. In this world 
there are many things hard of proof but easy 
enough of belief. Open as I am, both by pro- 
fession and inclination, to the influence of scien- 
tific pursuits, I have never ranked myself among 
those materialists who demand a mathematical 
proof as an antecedent to all intellectual convic- 
tions. There are too many things that lie outside 
the region in which logical proof is possible; and 


2 3 o STEALTHY TERROR 

one of the things incapable of proof is one’s own 
sanity. 

“At least,” I said, “I may take the paper with 
me,” for it was now in Mr. Buncombe’s fat 
hands. 

He glanced at his colleague. 

“I am not sure he ought to have it: it’s simply 
food for his delusion,” Mr. Buncombe talked as 
if I were not present. 

“Surely,” I cried in sarcasm, “a lunatic need 
not be robbed.” 

So they let me have it. 

As I was led to the door both secretaries 
watched me with sympathetic eyes. 

“Poor young fellow, mad as a hatter!” said 
Mr. Buncombe under his breath, 

“But quite harmless,” added Mr. Beilby, kind 
to the last. 

With the policeman I entered a taxi-cab out- 
side, in as helpless a rage as I have ever known. 
Vaguely I knew that at this time a good deal 
was being said about the German menace. One 
lighted on the thing in the newspapers. One met 
comments on it in the German papers. It was 
said to be the fad of one or two journalists. Had 
these stood alone they might have been disre- 
garded; but in politics a good definite cry is an 
asset of value, and the German peril had, no 
doubt, its use for the politician, as well as for the 
journalist. These two, however, did not stand 
alone: there were others, publicists and soldiers 


STEALTHY TERROR 


231 


with no axes of their own to grind, whose grave 
voices were raised in repeated warnings; and 
though we cannot say that these were unheard, 
yet they were unheeded by the purblind politician. 
The matter, however, was not without its uses — 
several young and rising politicians helped them- 
selves up into notoriety, if not fame, by the bit- 
terness of their comments on the warnings ut- 
tered by men grown grey in England’s service 
before these “young and rising” politicians were 
born. Like the Beilbys and the Buncombes, the 
only teaching to which they were open was the 
teaching of events. 

My stay at the police station was not destined 
to be a long one. On my arrival, I was placed in 
a room in which I knew I should be kept in ob- 
servation from a little window that opened on 
to another room. Eventually two gentlemen, 
whose profession was obvious to my eye, en- 
tered. 

“Mr. Abbotbrumley?” the elder addressed me 
in an interrogative tone. 

“Abercromby,” I answered, bowing. 

The inspector coughed and said: 

“My information is that the gentleman is never 
sure of his name, though he always gives one with 
a h’A in it.” 

The two doctors nodded, and the first con- 
tinued: 

“Well, Mr. Abercromby, I am told your nerves 
are a little unstrung, run down a bit, eh! so that 


232 


STEALTHY TERROR 


you had the idea that there are German spies 
chasing you all up and down England?’’ 

This made me laugh; it seemed too conclusive 
for disproof. 

“Aren’t you in danger of forgetting the dis- 
tinction between post hoc and propter hoc?” I 
asked. 

“H’m!” the second chipped in. “Know some 
Latin, eh?” 

“Thinks he’s been to Berlin too,” said the po- 
lice inspector in a stage whisper to the police 
surgeon. 

To me the connection between knowing some 
Latin and having been to Berlin was obscure. 

“I know little Latin, but I have some Logic,” 
I answered. 

Both men pricked up their ears at the mention 
of Logic; and I expected they would: lunatics, 
especially Scotch ones, are strong on Logic. 

“Come,” said the elder, fingering his beard, 
“this in interesting. How would you express 
it?” 

“Very simply, sir,” jl answered. “Are my 
nerves the cause of the spies, or the spies the 
cause of my nerves? Mind you, I do not admit 
to more than a certain cerebral excitement at 
unexpected revelations of official incapacity in a 
Government department.” The elder man with 
the beard smiled at this last. “Of course,” I 
continued, “I am aware it is my present mental 
condition you are concerned with, and not with the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


233 

causes, which may be either real or imaginary, 
that have induced it.” 

“Thank you,” the police surgeon replied dryly. 
“It’s in my experience unusual in such cases to 
be brought to the point by the person I examine. 
But, since we have been so far unconventional, 
I may as well remind you that a person in a 
hallucinated condition may be firmly convinced 
that he is a reincarnation of Julius Caesar, and 
at the same time be an excellent logician, and 
a man of common sense on all other points of 
life.” 

“Precisely, till you light on his hallucination.” 

The examiner-in-chief nodded assent, finger- 
ing his watch-chain and observing me narrowly. 

“By the way, what is your hallucination? I 
haven’t been told.” 

“Isn’t that for the inspector to say?” I asked. 
“The prisoner is not usually expected to charge 
himself.” 

“My information is that he has the delusion 
that there is a German invasion of England 
planned,” the inspector said. 

The civilian doctor emitted a whistle of as- 
tonishment! Both were silent for a little, and 
then the other turned to me grimly. 

“Well, what do you say to that?” 

“This — Lord Heritage has said it too. Have 
you examined him? Professor William Simpson 
said it too; but he is still allowed to lecture. Gen- 
eral Arthur Wetherby has said it; but you haven’t 


234 


STEALTHY TERROR 


signed his certificate: Bernard Bushford, the 
Socialist, has written it, yet he is still, I believe, 
at large. Why should the Whitehall Office sin- 
gle out me for this examination into my mental 
condition, for saying what all these men have 
said?” 

The bearded medico grinned, and I believe 
winked at his brother. 

“I have no idea,” he said slowly, “unless it 
was because you went to the Whitehall Office to 
say it.” 

The other roared at this, slapping his leg, and 
the inspector gaped in bewilderment. 

“Then,” I cried in relief, “you won’t consign 
me for further examination and observation.” 

“How can I,” he replied, “when I myself share 
in your hallucination?” 

The police surgeon carried me off with him 
to his house. We had a long talk. I stayed 
the night there, earning my bed with the story, 
or as much of it as I thought it prudent to give, 
of my adventures. When I had finished he re- 
marked that I had been wise not to tell them all 
that at the police station, or he would have been 
inclined to authorise my detention. 

At his urgent advice I spent the following day 
quietly in his house, and when I left Charing Cross 
by the 9.45 for Dover, it was as a timid and 
spectacled young clergyman. 

In this character I was a source of gaiety to a 


STEALTHY TERROR 


235 


kilted soldier, who insisted on calling me 
“Specky,” and to a sailor who addressed me as 
“Sky,” and who wished to know if I was on my 
way to make an attempt at the cross-Channel 
Swim. 


CHAPTER XI 


T HERE were two points that vastly con- 
cerned me. The enemy meditated a sud- 
den stroke. This might have been known 
not from one but from a hundred indications, 
had not our own officialdom worked unceasingly 
to keep the public slumber undisturbed. So the 
two points that interested me were simply those 
of the time and the place. The first I regarded 
as beyond hope of immediate discovery: I could 
read no indication of it in the document I pos- 
sessed. As to the second, there was no more 
than the vague suggestion, as I read it, that the 
descent would be made somewhere on the south- 
east coast. This was all I knew when I deter- 
mined on my journey to Dover, and it was this 
fact alone that sent me there. I had the idea 
of pottering about for a few days with my eyes 
open. 

For a couple of days the old Cinque Port 
afforded me plenty of scope in the way of ex- 
ploration, but, of anything that bore upon my 
hunt, not a shadow. I pondered over that little 
Eitel drawing at all hours, but could extract no 
236 


STEALTHY TERROR 


237 


further light. On the third day as I was at break- 
fast in my hotel, and wondering whether I had 
better move on round the coast towards Wal- 
mer and Deal, the waiter, who had begun to 
manifest an interest in my doings and welfare, 
spoke — how little he knew it — the fateful word 
that put me definitely on the right track. Ob- 
serving, I suppose, my moodiness, he catalogued 
on his fingers the various places to which I had 
been, and then proceeded to suggest others further 
afield; there were, for instance, the Warren and 
Shakespeare’s Cliff. Rather mechanically, I am 
afraid, I thanked him; for to tell the truth at the 
moment I was not listening to him; my ear had 
caught the talk of two men sitting at my table. 
One, in naval uniform, but of what rank my 
knowledge of the navy was too insufficient to tell 
me, was a young man of perhaps twenty-six, and 
the other, an older man, was, though in a flan- 
nel suit, almost obviously either a soldier or a 
sailor. As they sat opposite to me it was im- 
possible for me not to hear what was said. The 
first thing to catch my attention had been the 
mention of Sir Arthur Wetherby’s name, and I 
found they were discussing him in connection with 
one of his most recent declarations on the Ger- 
man menace. The elder man was inclined to re- 
gret these utterances of the retired soldier, which 
were being warmly praised by the naval officer. 
My interest in the talk becoming manifest to 
them, and they, not caring possibly to discuss 


23B 


STEALTHY TERROR 


the personalities of the Service before the out- 
side world, as represented by myself, slid their 
conversation on to the subject of invasion in the 
abstract. The sailor stoutly maintained, though 
he seemed to regret the fact, that no Continental 
power dared attempt a landing in England, while 
the other thought it was quite a likely subject for 
the dreams of a strong military nation, who under- 
stood little of what sea-power meant. In my 
character of curate I ventured with much trepida- 
tion to put in an oar. One of them had just 
asked for a suggestion as to where the landing 
could be made. 

“Surely,” I said, “it would be where almost 
every one of the many invasions have been made, 
in Kent. Caesar landed in Kent; so did Hengist 
and Horsa, and Hardicanute. Duke William 
practically did so, and Napoleon wanted to.” 

At first, I fancy, they were inclined to resent 
my intrusion into the talk; but the sailor, perhaps 
confounding, as many still do, a clergyman with a 
scholar and thereby crediting me with some his- 
torical knowledge, welcomed my intervention. 

“Exactly!” he cried. “It has been done time 
and again; and more often successfully than 
not.” 

“Well, anyhow, they all destroyed the England 
of the time,” I said. 

The soldier looked queerly at me. 

“Does that apply to the landing you omitted 
to mention?” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


239 


“Which was that?” I asked. 

“St. Augustine’s.” 

We all laughed at that, but I think I had the 
best laugh. A long talk ensued on the subject, 
but, as so often happens in argument, with no 
other result than to stiffen each of us in his pre- 
vious judgment. 

It was only after they had gone that the wait- 
er’s words came back to me. He had men- 
tioned the view that could be had from Shake- 
speare’s Cliff, and the quaint interest there was 
in the Warren. The nearest road to the Cliff, 
from which I was told I should have an exten- 
sive view of the coast towards Dungeness, lay by 
the old road round by the Harbour Station. It 
was a sunny day, with a breeze blowing in by 
the sea, and the road as it mounted up, past a 
cluster of coast-guard cottages that stood out 
white and conspicuous against the green hill-side, 
led me on to the bold headland that approached 
Shakespeare’s Cliff. That Cliff I soon saw, high 
and clear-cut in outline, with silvery foam beating 
intermittently at its base. 

When I eventually reached the tableland which 
forms its top I was at an altitude from which, 
truly enough, a long stretch of coastline could be 
seen. To the west was Folkestone on its hills, 
and beyond, a huge curve of bay with Sandgate 
and Hythe, and beyond them again Dymchurch, 
and, creeping into view like a cloudy, low wall 
thrust far out to sea, lay Dungeness, a smudge 


2 4 o STEALTHY TERROR 

on the far horizon. Enamoured with the pano- 
ramic display, I lay down on the sunburnt turf to 
take my fill of it. Immediately below me was 
the railway that connected Dover and Folkestone, 
running under the white chalk cliffs. Farther in- 
land, the long range of semicircular Downs 
guarded the few miles of flat green fields, studded 
here and there with houses and trees, the hinter- 
land of Folkestone and Sandgate. 

Due south the French coast was clearly visible, 
more visible indeed than the filmy grey streak 
that was Dungeness; and I thought I could pick 
out the high point of Cape Gris-nez. Indeed, it 
was in fact much nearer, and so, as I looked out 
over that water that seems so narrow whenever 
the French coast is visible, I fell to thinking of 
what immense value the Channel is in the defences 
of England. Narrow as it was it had not been 
too narrow. And I mused on the last attempt 
that had been made, and saw in my mind’s eye 
that familiar figure in the cocked hat, the green 
coat, the top boots and white kerseymere breeches, 
the little Corporal of Corsica, standing above 
Boulogne, with a vast encamped army behind 
him, his dark saturnine eyes turned gloomily sea* 
wards. Napoleon, as Bourienne, his biographer, 
tells us, was no sailor and hated the sea. Well, 
that was likely enough; but, as I lay there and 
looked over the silver strip, I seemed to under- 
stand that his hate might spring from another 
cause than want of seamanship. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


241 


By a rough zigzag path I made my way down, 
and came into the broken stretch of seashore, all 
hummocks and brambles and gorse, that extends 
right up to Folkestone, and is called the Warren. 
It is a quaint wilderness of little hills, well above 
sea level, and yet well sheltered from the cold 
wind of the east and the north, and, with the 
springy grass, mighty pleasant to walk on. After 
I had traversed a mile so, I came on an old Mar- 
tello tower standing on a sloping bank, and there 
I rested for a while. By and by a man came 
wandering up, and we fell into talk. He was, 
he informed me, engaged in making a collection 
of wild flowers, for which that place was famed. 
This foreshore was a great hunting ground also 
for rare insects, especially for grasshoppers, many 
rare species of which were fairly common in that 
place. He had a friend who made the collection 
the work of his life; but he himself was getting 
old, and preferred to collect something that did 
not run away from him. 

Another acquaintance of his, a young bank 
clerk, was an authority on sea-shells, of which 
there were many in the neighbourhood — even 
fossil shells were to be found frequently there. 
A very interesting pursuit, he was informed, was 
the collecting of sea-shells, conchology, the young 
man called it; but as it involved the risk of damp 
feet, and so on, he himself clove to his flow- 
ers. Selecting a yellow one from the bunch in 
his hand, he showed it to me as being one which 


242 


STEALTHY TERROR 


in my character of clergyman ought to be of spe- 
cial interest to me, the tansy he called it. The 
name he said was from the Greek word that 
meant immortality. Could I write down in his 
note book what the Greek word was? Here was 
an unexpected stroke at my disguise! Hitherto 
I had not had the slightest difficulty in main- 
taining my assumed character. A connected 
story to account for myself I had of course 
prepared, but I had not gone the length of ac- 
quiring a knowledge of the Greek language as 
a proof of my bona fides. It was truly amus- 
ing that the one person, Joseph Dewinski ex- 
cepted, to come nearest to the penetration of my 
disguise should be a silly, old-young man who 
collected wild flowers. 

I knew no Greek, but then neither did the man 
himself! So out of my remembrance of the ap- 
pearance of Greek characters I constructed a 
word which, I assured him, was the one desired. 
After looking at it with interest and contentment 
he was profuse in his thanks, lifted his hat, and 
went on his flowery way. Dear peaceful Eng- 
land ! I should have liked to pluck at his sleeve, 
and at that of the collector of ants and grasshop- 
pers, and at that of the young bank clerk who was 
an authority on shells, and have pointed out that 
Martello tower to them, which stood in the midst 
of their innocent preoccupations, and yet told 
them nothing of their forefathers’ fear a hun- 
dred years ago. So I thought, as I turned over 


STEALTHY TERROR 


243 


the pages of a guide-book to the coast of Kent 
that I had procured. And then I came on this 
passage, which showed me that others, whose oc- 
cupations were not so futile, could be no less fu- 
tile in their outlook. This was the passage, and 
its reference is to the very coast defences I had 
that morning passed: 

“The future perhaps will let all the fortifica- 
tions go to ruin, being able at Hague, and other 
courts, to settle its national quarrels quite as eas- 
ily as men sue and defend themselves in other 
Law Courts.” * 

There is fatuity if you life ! “Quite as 
easily”? Surely not! An individual has to ac- 
cept the decision of the Law Courts of the na- 
tion to which he belongs because it has power 
over his goods and his person; but who or what 
can enforce upon a nation any judgment it does 
not agree to accept? For the individual who is 
an offender the policeman suffices; but for the 
nation who is an offender there is ultimately 
only the soldier, and even he does not always suf- 
fice. 

As I lay there comfortably in the warm sun, 
my thoughts were punctuated by the far-away 
tap-tap-tapping of a machine gun, which seemed 
to show that somewhere along that coast there 
were men who shared my convictions. Across 
the water too, at intervals, there came the boom 
boom of a big gun from the direction of Lydd 
* “The Kent Coast,” by A. D. Lucas, p. 276. Fisher Unwin. 


244 


STEALTHY TERROR 


and the Dungeness, and that, also, was a comfort- 
ing sound, as I thought of the paper that lay 
against my breast, and of the Whitehall Office, 
while the grasshopper chirped near me in the 
heat, and a little rabbit loped out of the bramble 
cover and sat up on his haunches to regard the 
world. 

I must have been dozing for a minute. Any- 
way I recall that, in a half-conscious fashion, my 
thoughts were wandering over the way I had 
come that morning, and I wondered vaguely why 
that headland on my left got its connection with 
Shakespeare. Then the thought of Shakespeare 
led on to the thought of Germany, and the far 
away boom , boom , of the gun on my right also 
suggested Germany, so that I seemed to have my 
thoughts forced into one channel, both by the si- 
lent cliff and the active guns. For a moment I 
wondered if I were actually going mad, the vic- 
tim of an obsession. I opened my eyes and there 
was the rabbit still poised on its haunches — so 
my thoughts had been no more than a flash in 
time. The little animal was watching me in- 
tently. Perhaps to him the mere lifting of my 
eyelids had been alarming. 

Then the thing burst on me all at once! I sat 
up and tore little Eitel’s drawing from my pocket, 
while the rabbit took a header into cover. His 
mission had been accomplished! Of course that 
little bust was Shakespeare ; and the targets stood 
for Hythe, and both marked the limits within 


STEALTHY TERROR 


245 

which a landing could take place. I was on the 
very ground itself. 

The whole thing became as clear as daylight 
to me as I scanned the drawing. These things 
which Mr. Clarence Beilby had called the poor 
little fellow’s pathetic toys ! The rabbit was the 
Warren in which I was seated. The locomotive 
stood for the railway which was behind me, and 
the lines were the railway system, and showed 
that there was a branch railway to the beach at 
Sandgate. I never had been yet to any of these 
places, but I now knew their positions as well as 
if I had. Hastily I seized my guide-book with 
its map of the district. Yes; there were the rail- 
ways, and the church stood for Canterbury, and, 
away beyond, the stone was really an oyster, and 
stood for Whitstable, the “11” stood for, I 
guessed, another landing with which u i” would 
there link up. Beyond the railway line was the 
high semicircle of the downs, which would form 
an inner camp and would, once held, make the 
landing of a million men easy and safe. At all 
events that is how it struck me, though I knew, 
of course, nothing of military operations. 

Next I turned my attention on the series of 
figures underneath the main drawing. It was 
long before I could make anything of them, and 
in the end I was doubtful. However, what I 
seemed to make out was this: the drawings on 
the top of each of the series indicated a place. 
There was the repetition of the two targets al- 


246 


STEALTHY TERROR 


ready used as a symbol for Hythe, on account 
of its musketry school, to show me that. In each 
in the series a number followed, and of these I 
could make nothing. Then there followed an- 
other drawing, and to each of these I turned my 
thoughts. These were, as I made them out, 
drawings of a violin, a pair of scissors and a pair 
of eyeglasses. Set together in a list they at once, 
I think, become suggestive. I was hot on the 
scent now; far too keen and excited to linger 
where I was. Putting away my papers I made 
off rapidly along the foreshore in the direction of 
Folkestone, anxious to verify my theory that there 
were in Folkestone a hairdresser, in Hythe a 
jeweller, and in Sandgate a musician, who could 
tell me as much of little Eitel’s secret as any 
other three men in England, though, I suspected, 
I should not find them to be men of English 
birth. 

Well, I had a nice little surprise for them 
once they were found; for I had an idea as to 
how I might find them, which I put into practice 
when I entered Folkestone. At the post office 
in the Sandgate road I got possession of a local 
directory which, to my satisfaction, proved to be 
a well-arranged publication, giving not only the 
inhabitants in alphabetic order but also a classified 
list of trades and occupations. It also did the 
same thing for the neighbouring Sandgate and 
Hythe. Turning its pages I came on the list of 
hairdressers. There were about forty classified as 


STEALTHY TERROR 


247 


Hairdressers and Perfumers. Now if I found 
the street number of any one of them to corre- 
spond with any number on the Eitel column I 
might be certain I had found my man! The 
numbers under what I took to be Folkestone on 
my paper were 15 and 27. Was there any hair- 
dresser in the directory with a shop, in any street, 
at either of these numbers. Yes, there was! 
This was the entry: 

Black, F., 15 East Cliff Street. 

There was no entry that gave 27 as an ad- 
dress, so the second number must refer to some- 
thing else. However, for verification I tried the 
directory for a Sandgate violinist who had a shop 
in number 3 of some street. I was right on the 
track now. 

Ahn, R., 3 Seabrook Road. 

This was beyond the range of mere coinci- 
dence, and it did not need the further proof of 
ascertaining that at Hythe an optician and watch- 
maker assisted in throwing dust in the national 
eyes while he fitted glasses on the public nose: 

Daubmann, 15 West Parade. 

When I had taken note of these entries I went 
to have a look at the hairdresser, whose shop 
I found situated in the old part of the town, 
down by the narrow High Street, facing the 
harbour. It was not a high-class establishment, 
that of F. Black, and I should judge that disin- 
fectants would be a more suitable side line to the 
business than perfumery. Still since clergymen, 


248 


STEALTHY TERROR 


especially of the Church of England, are, like 
babes, unaccountable and irresponsible in their 
actions and tastes I thought it would excite no 
surprise if I selected such a hairdresser. So I 
entered. The proprietor was engaged in strop- 
ping a razor, and a youth was lathering a cus- 
tomer’s chin. A queer little shiver ran through 
me, for Mr. Black whose back was towards me 
did not look round on my entry, but caught my 
eye in the large mirror in front of him. He was 
a bulky man with a large rather featureless coun- 
tenance; but his eyes were noteworthy. It was 
not the casual look at a new client he gave me, 
rather a sort of alert, stealthy examination. For 
the briefest duration we looked at each other so, 
and then he turned round bowing me to a chair. 

I soon discovered that Mr. Black while an 
expert hairdresser was somewhat inexpert in his 
use of the English language, and his mistakes 
were of a kind that led me to believe not that his 
education had suffered neglect, but that, if left to 
himself, he would spell the homely English name 
of Black as Schwarz. When he had finished with 
my hair he was eager to complete matters with a 
shave. But I confess that I did not fancy a 
shave in that queer place. To have that quiet 
fat figured sleek ruffian playing about my throat 
with a razor! And suppose Dewinski, or some 
of his gang who knew me, were to enter — a not 
impossible chance, since we must suppose they 
kept in touch with all their agents — what would 


STEALTHY TERROR 


249 


they not give to find me huddled up in a sheet 
and with my head thrown back so conveniently! 

I was extraordinarily glad to get out of that 
dark shop into the fresh air again. 

After I had visited both Mr. Ahn’s establish- 
ment at Sandgate and Mr. Daubmann’s at 
Hythe, I took some lunch in Folkestone at a 
restaurant in the Sandgate Road, and then sat 
pondering over what possible plan of action was 
open to me. Both shops were situated so as to 
command from the rooms above an extensive 
view of the Channel. I had, however, merely 
inspected them from the outside and marked 
their position; for it might have been fatal had 
Messrs. Black, Ahn and Daubmann come, by 
some odd chance, to know that each had that day 
a visit from a clergyman. For long I sat, full 
of consideration. What could I do? Go to the 
police and denounce these three respectable local 
tradesmen? Suppose I did, what proofs had I 
to advance? Merely the same childish drawings 
that had failed so lamentably at the Whitehall 
Office. Could I reasonably expect a higher 
degree of intelligence in any local officials? True, 
there was the coincidence of their numbers and 
occupations on that paper with what I had found 
in the local directory. Would that be enough? 

I sickened as I thought of the hopelessness 
of it all! Very likely they would consider me 
a wandering lunatic who had manufactured little 
Eitel’s drawings himself; and I could see them 


250 


STEALTHY TERROR 


in the police office, with innocent cunning, asking 
me to draw a sheep for them, and a rabbit, and 
an engine, and a sand castle, and a church so as 
to detect my guileless hand before they consigned 
me to medical supervision, and advertised for my 
friends! At the best, what was the word of a 
stranger worth against three respectable local 
tradesmen whom they knew, and who, no doubt, 
paid rent, rates and taxes with due punctuality? 
The self-evident fact was that I had got hold 
of nothing tangible in the way of proof, and 
until I did I could look in vain for any outside 
help. 

As I sat over my coffee, with the paper before 
me, more and more I came to admire the dexterity 
of that childish concealment which seemed to tell 
all, and which told nothing. It was an extra- 
ordinarily black moment for me. A feeling of 
deep depression flooded my mind in that 
deserted cafe. Outside on the pavement the 
miscellaneous throng of people in their bright 
summer clothes passed and repassed; snatches 
of laughter, and greetings of friends, came to my 
ears, a symbol of England they were, of England 
innocent, and asleep, oblivious, while in their very 
midst, harboured, and sometimes even honoured, 
there moved this vile, slimy, hidden treachery 
that laboured ceaselessly with a thousand active 
fingers, in pothouse and palace, for England’s 
destruction. 

I wandered out on the Leas, amid the gay 


STEALTHY TERROR 


251 


butterflies that were listening to the military 
band, which that afternoon was playing on the 
glorious headland. In the midst of all that 
kaleidoscope of colour and buzz of talk I had a 
sense of being separate and aloof. The smooth 
bituminous paths that ran along the greensward 
and encircled the bandstand seemed to be but 
the thin, hardened surface that hid the burning 
lava on which a symbolic England moved un- 
concernedly. I had been through this surface, 
and knew what lay beneath. It made me feel 
alien to the throng, like the Ancient Mariner 
amongst the wedding-guests. If only, I thought, 
there were some one who would work with me, 
one who would talk it over, so that in the con- 
flict of thought with thought we might hammer 
out something practical, unearth some proof, 
tangible, visible, demonstrable. Like the Lady 
of Shalott, I was sick of shadows. 

Presently I had left behind people and band- 
stand and bathchairs, and found myself at the 
Sandgate end of the Leas, beside a field, in which 
a cricket match, between, apparently, a girls’ and 
a boys’ school was going on. The girls were 
batting and doing well, to judge from the applause 
that came from the rest of the blue and green 
team on the boundary line. But perhaps they 
were, after all, like myself not doing very well, 
and in sore need of encouragement, as I was at 
that moment. No one believed in me — at least 
only a girl who had been through part of the 


252 


STEALTHY TERROR 


thing with me. There was something that 
comforted me in the thought, and I resolved to 
supplement the wire I had sent Miss Thompson 
that morning with a fuller letter which would be 
useful in the public interest, if anything happened 
to me in the next few days. 

Coming on the edge of the cliff I sat down 
in that quiet place and tried my luck with Eitel’s 
drawing again; but I had no luck at all, and 
soon laid it aside, baffled. I don’t know how 
long I sat there brooding. Far below were the 
red-topped houses, and under my eyes the noble 
curve of bay that ran to Hythe. The cricket 
match had ended, and the girls in blue and green 
had trooped down the steep slanting path to their 
school again. The strains of the distant band no 
longer came fitfully on the breeze to my inatten- 
tive ear. When I got up I had come to the 
conclusion that I would, on the morrow, seek out 
Ashton, the member who had made the row in 
the House, and lay my story before him. If I 
failed there I would make an attempt to enlist 
Sir Arthur Wetherby who, as a soldier, might 
make more out of Eitel than I had done. If I 
failed with him also I would be unlikely to 
succeed elsewhere, and would wash my hands of 
the whole business. 

The train I took at Shorncliffe station landed 
me back in Dover in good time for the dinner 
to which I brought very little appetite. 

In the smoking-room afterwards I sat out all 


STEALTHY TERROR 


253 


the guests, smoking many moody pipes. It must 
have been about eleven o’clock, as I was thinking 
of retiring, when the door opened, and the two 
officers, my acquaintances of the morning, entered. 
Both seemed tired, and apparently only entered 
for a last pipe, and the night-cap which the waiter 
presently brought them. A nod passed between 
us, and as I got up they dropped into the deep 
lounge chairs, the one with a sigh, the other with 
a half-stifled yawn. The sailor had picked up a 
newspaper, and I was crossing the room to go to 
bed as he called his friend’s attention to some- 
thing in it that had caught his eyes : 

“Here’s a dashed funny thing, Mac,” he said 
with some animation. “Listen to this advertise- 
ment: ‘Whitehall Office. Jf Mr. Abercrumley 
will call again with his drawing he can be assured 
of a very different reception.’ What an extra- 
ordinary thing!” 

The other man laughed. I stopped dead by 
the door. 

“Usual blunder, I suppose,” said the soldier, 
taking the paper and scanning it. “A very 
unusual advertisement from a Government de- 
partment.” 

“Something damned funny behind that Mr. 
Abercrumley, no doubt,” the other concluded, 
turning to his drink. 

Letting the door go, I came back into the 
room, and they did not seem to hear my steps 
on the thick red carpet. 


254 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“There is,” I said. “You are quite right 
There is something damned funny behind that 
Mr. Abercrumley.” 

They turned round, staring at me, and I pushed 
a chair up to them and sat down. 

“If you come to that,” I said, raising my 
voice, “it is damned funny that they should call 
him Mr. Abercrumley.” 

I think they were terribly shocked. Like all 
laymen they, no doubt, were very particular about 
clergymen’s language. 

“Who are you, anyway?” asked the sailor, 
quick and snappy. “Are you a clergyman?” 

“Not I!” I answered stoutly. 

“Then who the devil are you, and what ?” 

“Mr. Abercrumley.” I interrupted the rising 
storm. 

Both stared at me in silence. It was the 
soldier who first found words. 

“You look rather white. Do you want to 
tell us about it?” He got up and touched the 
bell. “So they want you at the Whitehall Office, 
Mr. Abercrumley,” he continued. 

I took the lead thus given me and nodded. 

“It is about that matter we were discussing 
this morning. The matter of invasion.” 

“One minute.” He stopped me as the waiter 
came in. “I think we’ll say brandy for you — do 
you more good.” And on my assenting the man 
placed the glass on a little table to my hand. 
This soldier, if he was a soldier, assumed control 


STEALTHY TERROR 255 

of things in a rather remarkable manner. “Now,” 
he said, “fire away, we’re listening.” 

“I ought to begin by saying that my name is 
not Abercrumley at all, but Abercromby. You’ll 
think that funny, but I did give my real name to 
them, only they persisted in calling me Abercrum- 
ley, or anything that began with an ‘A,’ and had 
four syllables in it. Of course I know it is quite 
safe to tell you my story. Your uniform ” 

“I beg pardon,” the lieutenant intervened: 
“This,” — he indicated his friend with his pipe — 
“is Captain Mackenzie. I am Lieutenant Deverill 
of the Nightjar” 

It took me a good hour to tell my story, but 
it did not exhaust their patience ; neither did they 
interrupt me by a single question. Sometimes an 
eyebrow would be lifted, but whether in in- 
credulity or astonishment I could not say. Some- 
times they exchanged a glance; and when I came 
to that part of my tale which concerned Mr. 
Beilby and Mr. Buncombe, and expected a 
smile, they remained grave and unmoved. Ob- 
sessed as I then was, with the shadowy nature 
of the evidence, and with my perpetual failure to 
secure any tangible and convincing proof, I laid 
great stress on the relentless and unceasing nature 
of the attempts made to recover the little Eitel 
document, and on the impossibility of believing 
it to be the innocent and pathetic thing Mr. 
Beilby made out, and finished by telling them 
the result of my investigations in the Folkestone 


256 


STEALTHY TERROR 


directory that day. I think I put the thing 
lucidly and calmly; but all the same when, at the 
end, Captain Mackenzie asked if they might 
see the little Eitel drawing, I was afraid that the 
apparently guileless innocency of that childish 
production would, once more, undo the effect of 
my story. 

Mackenzie’s hand trembled as he put it out 
to take possession of the paper, and I, being now 
as sensitive as a schoolgirl to any laughter with a 
hint of ridicule in it, shot a glance at his face to 
see if it reflected a corresponding emotion. 

“This is priceless,” murmured the lieutenant, 
scanning the paper. 

It was not half-suppressed amusement I read 
on the soldier’s face. He was pale, and it was 
no flicker of ribald mirth I saw — the eyes of the 
men were like burning flames. A thrill ran down 
my spine, and a far-away suspicion was born in 
my brain. But he had the paper now, and was 
examining it closely, in silence. Feeling in my 
pocket for the Browning pistol, I quietly freed 
the safety catch and held it there, ready for use. 

Presently he lifted his eyes to me. 

“Mr. Abercromby,” he said quietly, “you may 
not know the Greek for ‘immortality,’ but your 
knowledge of German may yet make you im- 
mortal in English history.” 

He waved a hand at my astonishment, and 
explained : 

“This morning your interest in the subject 


STEALTHY TERROR 


257 


of invasion was very marked. It had evidently 
occupied your mind much more as a definite and 
concrete project than as an abstract possibility. 
Of course I see now why that was so; but this 
morning I did not know, and you raised sus- 
picion.” 

“Very easily done,” the lieutenant interjected. 
“It’s his lay, you know — a Secret Service bloke.” 

“I’ve had warning that something was afoot,” 
Mackenzie went on. “But we never could lay a 
finger on anything. Well, from your talk and 
other things, the pistol you carry in your pocket 
for instance, I guessed you were no clergyman. 
To make sure I had that interesting talk with 
you this afternoon in the Warren, and got you, if 
you remember, to write down a word which, 
if you were what you affected to be, you must 
know.” 

“Pardon the interruption,” I broke in, “which 
is to express my admiration for the English Secret 
Service. If a knowledge of the Greek language 
is an essential qualification it must be a remark- 
ably efficient organization.” 

“Oh that I” Deverill laughed. “Mac started 
learning Greek at his preparatory school, natural 
passion for it. If he’d not been what he is he 
would have been another Gilbert Murray.” 

“Everything comes in handy with us,” the 
soldier continued. “Well, Mr. Abercromby, 
after I had ascertained you were no clergyman 
I kept an eye on you all the afternoon ” 


258 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“What!” I cried. “You followed me 

and !” 

“Not in a way that disconcerted you, I hope, 
and it was very useful to me to mark the places 
you visited.” 

“Black’s and Ahn’s and Daubmann’s?” 

“Precisely. I couldn’t quite make out, though, 
why you merely looked at these places and did not 
enter.” 

“That left you guessing, Mac,” said the 
sailor, raillery in his voice. 

The other nodded. 

“Thought Mr. Abercromby might be a spy 
sent to spy on the spies,” he said. “But I should 
have known all about him to-night.” 

“To-night!” I cried, incredulous. 

“To-night you were to have been quietly 
arrested by the police on the pretence of being an 
absconding solicitor. Then you would have had 
to endure a thorough rummage into your ante- 
cedents and present possessions. We should have 
found this drawing.” 

“And made nothing of it,” I said grimly. 

Mackenzie’s eyes glimmered at me. 

“I should have made just what I make of it 
now,” he replied, folding and pocketing the 
drawing. 

“You can read it?” I cried. “Nothing in it 
puzzles you?” 

“Oh yes, one thing does fairly beat me.” 

He began to walk up and down, lost in 


STEALTHY TERROR 259 

thought. The lieutenant sat watching him, while 
I, inwardly incredulous as to the possibility of his 
being able to decipher my document unassisted 
by my story, sipped from my glass. Outside I 
heard a motor slide up to the hotel door, the 
engine throbbing. Mackenzie stopped his per- 
ambulation, listening. Then he turned towards 
us and said: 

“Deverill, go and take off that uniform. You 
will find some clothes in my room.” 

The sailor got up quickly, and at the door 
they talked quietly together before Deverill left 
the room. Captain Mackenzie came over and 
stood before me. I slipped my hand on to the 
butt end of my pistol again, not knowing what 
next to expect or fear. 

“Abercromby,” he said, “there is something 
very strange about this affair.” 

Now I liked the way in which he dropped 
the formal prefix to my name: it reassured me, 
and somehow told me that he accepted me as a 
comrade. I knew he was all right and withdrew 
my hand, in some shame, from my pocket. 

“Of course,” I said judicially, “the details are 
difficult to read, but the general idea is as clear as 
daylight.” 

“Is it?” he asked with a sigh. “To me it 
is the separate details that are clear, but the gen- 
eral idea ” he turned away — “is black, black 

as midnight.” 

“Surely,” I began. 


260 STEALTHY TERROR 

But he wheeled round on me, intensely 
moved. 

“It was in Germany you got that paper, 
wasn’t it?” 

“Yes,” I faltered, wondering if he had gone 
suddenly mad. 

“And these were Germans you hunted out this 
afternoon!” 

“One was, I’ll swear to that, though he is 
called Black.” 

“And these were Germans who hunted you to 
Scotland?” 

“Yes — well, I can’t swear to it. One may 
have been a Jew.” By this time I was dazed. 

“You will wonder why I ask you these things,” 
he said with a bewildered air himself. “But this 
drawing though it coiroborates you in its appear- 
ance, in its love of detail, and the evident passion 
of its authors for a nicely arranged and dated 
programme of operations, yet contradicts you in 
the one essential fact.” 

“For Heaven’s sake say what it is,” I 
cried. 

Captain Mackenzie took out the little Eitel 
drawing : 

“This,” he said quietly, “is not a German 
scheme for the invasion of England, but a French 
one.” 

“French!” I cried. “French! Are you 
mad?” 

“At least,” he said, “it is the programme of 


STEALTHY TERROR 261 

an invasion from the French coast, from Calais, 
to be precise.” 

“Calais 1 ” I stammered, “I don’t see — how 
Germany can ” 

“That’s it!” said Mackenzie. “Neither do 
I.” And he began to pace the room again. 

Nothing more was said till Deverill reappeared 
in mufti. 

“I sent the policeman home,” said the lieu- 
tenant, smiling at me. 

Mackenzie threw off his abstraction, becoming 
all at once the man of action. 

“Car. ready?” he asked. 

“At the door,” replied Deverill. 

“Now, Abercromby,” he said turning to me. 
It was indeed a night of surprises I 
“Well?” I said weakly. 

“That pistol of yours loaded?” 

“It is,” I answered, wondering what came 
next. 

“Then bring it with you. I fancy we may be 
in for a rough time.” 


CHAPTER XII 

W HILE the car was humming up the 
long hill out of Dover no word 
passed between us three. Captain 
Mackenzie leaned back, preoccupied with his 
thoughts. It was too dark to see anything more 
than the arcs of our head-lights on the road, and 
the sharply silhouetted backs of Deverill and the 
chauffeur in front. But when at last we topped 
the downs, and were nearing the Royal Oak Inn, 
which is almost half-way between the two towns 
of Dover and Folkestone, he spoke. 

“Do you think Henschel was killed?” 

The question surprised me. Not only as 
regards its unexpectedness but also in the peculiar 
emphasis he laid on the proper name. 

“Not a doubt of it,” I answered. And then, 
as he was silent, I began to comment on the man’s 
bravery, remarking on the contrast it presented to 
his disloyalty to his country. 

“How do you mean — disloyalty?” 

“Well,” I answered, “I suppose one must 
regard him as disloyal to his country. I suppose 
he was so for reward, which made him doubly 
262 


STEALTHY TERROR 263 

base; yet if bravery is a virtue he was a good 
man; and no man could have died more heroically 
for his country than Henschel died for England.” 

He fell silent again, like a man considering 
his next remark. Then I felt his hand laid on 
my arm. 

“He died for his own country,” he said. “Be 
sure of that.” 

“Henschel!” I said, astonished. 

“His name was not Henschel. I cannot tell 
you his name, though it is a good name, but he — 
well, never mind that — I wish the world could 
know.” His words trailed off so that the last of 
them appeared as if he were speaking his thoughts 
aloud. 

So we bowled along the Dover road, high 
above the sea. From away on the French coast 
came the brilliant white flashes of the Gris-nez 
lighthouse. Down below were the lights of the 
ships dotting the surface of the channel, andahead 
of us, as the car began to take the long slope that 
runs into Folkestone — the citizens of which had 
long gone to bed — was the soft glow that came 
from the innumerable lamps of the empty streets. 

We did not enter Folkestone itself, but made 
a circle round the back of the town by a road that 
ran under the Downs, and brought us out at 
Cheriton, close to Shorncliffe railway station. 
There Mackenzie and Deverill left the car and 
were away about half an hour, returning laden 
with implements of some sort which they kept 


264 


STEALTHY TERROR 


carefully covered. Then we went on, along a 
narrow road, and down a steep hill till we came 
into Sandgate. Here we stopped, and, sitting in 
the car while the sailor busied himself getting the 
instruments and implements out, Mackenzie gave 
me a paper; throwing a light on it from a hand 
torch, he explained what he wanted me to do. 
The paper had certain figures on it, and it was 
easy for me to see that they were those so fa- 
miliar to me on the little Eitel document. 

“I want you,” said Mackenzie, “to keep 
beside me and be ready to verify the figures. And 
in your other hand keep your gun ready, and with 
your other eye keep a sharp look out and tell me 
what you see.” 

We left the car and went along the road that 
runs by the sea. Deverill carried some rods 
about five feet long, painted black and white, and 
Mackenzie had a roll of fine chain. It was pretty 
dark, and we fumbled about the beach for some 
time. Ultimately the soldier stopped and drove 
one of the poles in among the shingle and Deverill 
went on, carrying one end of the chain. Mackenzie 
went on hands and knees to watch the chain as it 
uncoiled. After a while he called to Deverill, 
and though I could see nothing his feet ceased on 
the shingle and the chain stopped unwinding. 

“See anything?” called Mackenzie. 

There was a rattling of stones in the distance, 
and after a time DeverilPs voice called back: 

“Nothing doing.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


265 


Several times Mackenzie altered the position 
of the striped pole, which was, so to speak, our 
base, and the same performance was repeated. 
The exchanges between the two were almost 
monosyllabic, quick and sharp too, as though they 
were afraid of being overheard; and once when 
Deverill made more than his usual noise on the 
shingle Mackenzie swore under his breath at him. 
It was all a mystery to me, and I was never 
requested for the figures in my hand. Once, too, 
Mackenzie’s quick ear detected some alien sound, 
and he bade me lie down and stopped Deverill’s 
advance by a sharp pull on the chain, without a 
word. We lay down and waited, and presently 
I heard the slow footsteps of some one go by, up 
above, on the promenade. After he had passed 
the work went on harder than ever, and from 
Mackenzie’s subdued but vehement exclamations 
I gathered that he was both anxious and im- 
patient. The night was wearing on. Eventually 
success came suddenly. Mackenzie had stopped 
the unrolling chain, which I now knew was marked 
into yards and feet, like a gigantic tape measure, 
and in response to this action, which was a word- 
less question to Deverill, the latter’s voice came 
back to us: 

“Rather! What do you think?” 

The very tone told me he had got something. 

“What is it?” Mackenzie called quite loudly, 
eagerly. 

“A very tidy boat winch and the rest of it.” 


266 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Got 134 on the paper, Abercromby?” the 
man beside me asked. 

“I have,’’ I replied. 

After that they seemed to tumble on things 
and never once looked back. I didn’t in the least 
know what it all meant, but I knew the figures 
worked out straight. 

They seemed to be satisfied with their work 
at that place, and Mackenzie was in a mighty 
haste to be off elsewhere. We made along the 
road by the sea till we came to another road that 
led inland, up a slight incline, and here they 
hunted about for a time for something; but 
without result so far as I could gather. The 
darkness seemed to be the trouble: it was some 
markings that they were hunting for. Mackenzie 
was extraordinarily eager, going down on his 
hands and knees on the road, and even crawling 
from point to point with his face peering in the 
very dust. But neither seemed able to pick up 
any sign of what they were seeking, and in the 
end the search was abandoned. 

The car put us down soon after daybreak at a 
Folkestone hotel, and after a wash Mackenzie 
ordered us to bed. There was no more, he said, 
to be done till later, and for what lay before us 
we had best seek some rest now, when we could 
get it. How things fared with my companions I 
don’t know, but for myself I was no sooner in bed 
than I fell fast asleep. 

At breakfast, which we had together at nine 


STEALTHY TERROR 


267 

in a private room, Mackenzie lifted something 
of the veil of darkness that shrouded things. But 
he wasn’t, even by nature, a communicative sort 
of man. 

“I don’t want to pry I said, “but if I might 
know whether it is France or Germany. France, 
as you know, is the old ally of Scotland.” 

He saw I was a bit piqued at being left an 
outsider in their deliberations and discoveries, 
and laughed. 

“I was rather an ass not to guess the thing 
at once,” he said. “But it was such a confound- 
edly big programme, even for that land of mag- 
nificent ideas.” 

“What land?” I asked. 

“Germany,” he answered. “Ever since 1870 
Germany has suffered from swollen head. No 
nation in history has achieved a bigger military 
reputation on anything like a single achievement, 
as she has.” 

“But — Calais,” I reminded him. 

He lit a cigar, nodding. 

“That’s it — the bigness of the programme. 
It was to be France first, and then England, one 
after the other. Mind you, it was quite a good 
scheme in itself, and would stand on its own 
merits; but I dare say the invasion from Calais 
was deliberately chosen for the sake of its 
grandeur. Napoleon wanted to do it, you re- 
member, and failed. What could more blazon 
the military genius of Germany, and its present 


268 


STEALTHY TERROR 


ruler, than the accomplishment of something in 
which the great Napoleon failed?” 

“You speak in the past tense,” I said. “The 
scheme was . Am I to understand ” 

“You are,” said Mackenzie grimly. “I have 
an idea myself that if the time comes when the 
Germans, according to their programme, make a 
push for Calais they will find something thrust 
in between it and them that will take some 
shifting.” 

I could not think what this could be at the 
time and almost thought that he had referred to 
the fleet, and had intended to say ‘between it 
and us.’ I let the saying pass, however, and 
indeed he gave me no time to interpose with 
further questions on the point. 

“But,” he went on, “though that thrust at 
Calais will never be allowed to succeed, I own 
that I should like to lay by the heels the men 
who know that we know.” 

“They will have already reported the loss of 
the drawings,” I said. 

“Perhaps, and perhaps not; but that is not 
the important point. The important point for 
their consideration, Abercromby, is one that I 
dare swear gives them a mighty lot of thinking 
at the present moment: did they lose the draw- 
ings to one who could read their meaning.” 

“Surely,” I said, “my visit to the Whitehall 
Office, of which I believe they knew, would settle 
that?” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


269 


“They assuredly watched for you there, but 
we may take it as certain that as no immediate 
action by the office followed on your visit they 
would infer, if indeed they had not ways and 
means of ascertaining the fact, that the office had 
failed to penetrate the sinister significance of the 
paper. You see that? Well, their next step 
would be to watch for you here on the spot. 
Not till they saw you here could they know, 
definitely, that the game was all up with their 
scheme. Then they would have to report the 
fact to their authorities. But you can bet your 
life they don’t want to do that, as long as they 
aren’t sure.” 

I began to see things. 

“You think they are here, in Folkestone?” I 
asked. 

“Not a doubt of it,” Mackenzie remarked. 

“Then they will have seen me, and know their 
game is up!” 

“It is probable that they know you are here 
by this time, though they didn’t know you were 
yesterday, at 3 p.m., yet ” 

“You are very precise,” I interjected. “How 
do you know?” 

“It was about 3 o’clock yesterday that you 
visited that barber’s shop, was it not? If they 
had known, you would not have left it alive. 
But that is not the important thing either. They 
have got to see if they cannot dispose of you, my 
friend, before you have persuaded any responsible 


270 STEALTHY TERROR 

person to believe your story, and understand their 
drawing.” 

With that he tossed the stump of his cigar 
through the open window, and took a chair beside 
Deverill and myself. 

“It’s only fair,” he went on, u that you should 
clearly understand how things are. There is 
now no question of any danger to the country, 
at any rate through a surprise attack. That 
being so, your work is ended — your mission 
accomplished — and it is only fair to tell you, 
Abercromby, that, if you cared, you may honour- 
ably wash your hands of the whole business, here 
and now.” 

At that Deverill, who had been lying back in 
a lazy attitude, lifted his head and regarded me 
curiously; Mackenzie himself scrutinised a 
picture on the wall. I understood their thought. 
They knew the dangers through which I had 
come perhaps better than I myself did; and, as 
no man’s luck lasts a lifetime, they were offering 
me a chance to withdraw from a dangerous game 
at its most dangerous moment. Why shouldn’t 
I, as he suggested, wash my hands of the business 
here and now? It was quite enough for me that 
I had smashed their scheme. So I was thinking 
when Mackenzie began to pace the room again. 
It might be enough for me to have smashed their 
project; it was clearly not enough for him. The 
instinct of the hunter was strong in that man — 
he wanted to smash the men as well as the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


271 


scheme. I watched him as he paced to and fro 
restlessly. I think he forgot his last words to 
me, forgot even my presence, in his own thoughts. 
He became tremendously excited in a queer 
suppressed way. 

“If I could only take them,” he said; and 
again, “I want to take them.” 

Deverill, too, watched him. The sailor bent 
towards me. 

“What he wants,” he whispered, “is to dis- 
pose of that gang before they can report the 
miscarriage of the plan. Then the plan would 
be pigeon-holed, as a settled part of their big 
campaign, and when the chosen hour struck 
would be extracted and followed out to the letter. 
They would never know that we knew! You 
see what that would mean for us?” 

I nodded. He continued, rapidly and 
eagerly : 

“To-day is probably the last day on which he 
can hope to get them. They would have 
cleared out of the country now but for their 
belief in our invincible stupidity. But it’s un- 
likely we can catch them in the time without 
your help; and he’s unwilling to ask you to enter 
into the dangerous game — you’ve risked so much 
already — and what is to come yet is the most 
dangerous of all.” 

On that I made up my mind. 

“I wouldn’t be out of the game for any- 
thing,” I said. “They have hunted me so long 


272 STEALTHY TERROR 

that it will be great fun to hunt them for a 
change.” 

Mackenzie, standing looking out of the win- 
dow, heard my words and wheeled round. 

“You mean it?” he asked. “You under- 
stand?” 

“I believe so,” I answered. “You want to use 
me as a bait for them.” 

Deverill seized and shook my hand. 

“The bait,” said Mackenzie, “doesn’t usually 
get much fun out of the hunt, and is sometimes 
eaten up; but you know, Abercromby, your luck 
has been good — better I think than you dream 
of — and Deverill and I will now be behind you, 
to ease the strain.” 

It was easy to see that he was immensely 
pleased with my decision. Deverill, who seemed 
to have been waiting merely till I decided, now 
left the room, apparently on some prearranged 
business. It was then close on ten o’clock. 
Mackenzie, at first with the air of talking to pass 
the time, began to question me as to what I knew 
of the men for whom he was setting his trap. 

“The man,” he remarked, “that I want to 
lay by the heels is a fellow called Hohenstaffel.” 

I was sorry to disappoint him. 

“There isn’t anyone in it of that name so far 
as I know,” I replied. “There is a fat man 
named Roon, and a man with a pitted face whose 
name I never heard, and another, a Jew, whom 
they called Dewinski.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


273 


“Perhaps it’s only a matter of names,” 
Mackenzie continued. “This Jew of yours, what 
was he like?” 

“A small slight man,” I answered, “with 
clear-cut features, silky beard, fine teeth and a 
red smiling mouth.” 

Mackenzie was engaged in selecting a cigar, 
and I observed that his hand shook. 

“That is my man,” he said. “Hohenstaffel 
was his name then. And you have been as close 
to him as I am to you at this minute!” 

I laughed. 

“Close enough to hit him.” 

The soldier was lighting up as I said this. 

“Abercromby,” he said, turning a pair of 
glittering eyes on me, “I am not an envious man, 
but I envy you that blow.” 

“Oh,” I answered, “if it’s any satisfaction to 
you, I hit him hard enough.” 

“Satisfaction!” He sighed gently. “That 
man got my best friend five years in a fortress on 
a false charge of espionage, merely to show his 
efficiency as an agent. That’s years ago. Now 
he is the master mind in this affair, and in many 
others.” 

“What are you going to do?” I asked, 
excited. 

He got up without answering my question. 

“In about half an hour,” he said, “an old 
lady in a Bath chair will call at the hotel and ask 
for you. I want you to accompany her on her 


274 


STEALTHY TERROR 


promenades. You will do what she tells you to 
do, but as she’s very deaf you need not suppress 
your language, nor, on the other hand, need you 
attempt polite conversational remarks.” 

He left me alone then; but his amusement 
enlightened me as to his scheme, and I saw in the 
very lightness of his tone the delight with which 
the man of action welcomed the hour of big 
things. 

When I had changed out of my clergyman’s 
clothes into the grey flannels Deverill had pro- 
cured for me, and had descended to the front 
door of the hotel, the lady was there waiting for 
me. Although I very well knew things were not 
what they seemed, the disguises were so good 
that I could not tell which was Mackenzie and 
which was Deverill. One, of course, did not see 
much of the occupant of the chair, but it seemed 
impossible to believe that the dejected creature 
who began to pull the chair along the Sandgate 
road could be either of them; and it was not till 
the melancholy attendant allowed the chair to 
bump into a tree near the Westcliff Hotel, and 
drew from the occupant a deep and very unlady- 
like reproof, that I recognised the voice of 
Mackenzie. That blunder was not repeated; 
but it was lucky no one saw or heard. 

So it was that we began to throw our line for 
the big fish we were out to land. I, who was 
the bait, walked by the side of the vehicle. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


2 75 ! 

Mackenzie was all eyes, interested like any in- 
valid old lady in everything and every one. But 
I knew that, unlike such old ladies, underneath 
the apron of the chair he held a revolver in his 
right hand. 

In this fashion we made a tour of the prin- 
cipal streets in the upper part of the town. I 
think both of them enjoyed the business almost 
for its own sake, Deverill certainly did, and as 
for Mackenzie, he being I suppose so hopeful of 
success, there were times when his humour was 
obvious, as, for instance, when he made us linger 
on the pavement in front of a shop in Tontine 
Street, to the manifest inconvenience of the 
public, while he admired the ladies’ garments dis- 
played in the windows. Later in the morning 
we found ourselves on the Leas where there were 
many people strolling about, or sunning them- 
selves on the seats. 

In the afternoon the promenade was repeated, 
except that then we covered new ground, taking 
our way in the direction of Sandgate, always 
watchful for any indication of being observed or 
followed by any kind of human being. 

Two days passed in this fashion, Mackenzie 
and Deverill leaving me at the hotel, and later 
returning in their normal characters to spend the 
night at the same hotel with me. In the whole 
time none of us got an eye on the slightest indi- 
cation that we were being watched. Once indeed 
I thought I detected traces of the presence of 


STEALTHY TERROR 


276 

something unusual in the sudden manner in 
which Deverill once pulled up the Bath chair. 
It was on the Sandgate hill, near a little steep 
lane that led on to the main road and down 
which a troop of boys were coming, some school, 
as I saw, for all of them wore the same striped 
caps of red and white. Both men’s eyes were 
fixed on the boys, and I wondered. 

“What is it?” I asked Mackenzie quickly. 

He reassured me quietly. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Deverill and I used to 
wear those caps, years ago. They are boys from 
our own old school.” 

The boys passed us, engaged in their own 
world, and I am quite sure they never saw us. 
That was on our first afternoon. By the end of 
the third afternoon I think we all three began to 
be rather hopeless. It looked as if our men had 
taken fright, and scuttled. Deverill and I were 
for throwing things up, and even Mackenzie 
himself was somewhat shaken in his purpose. 
Besides, good impostors as both men were it was 
impossible to maintain this play-acting for long 
without something going awry. That day there 
had been a contretemps in the Castle Hill 
Avenue. We had occasion to cross that quiet 
road, and while the Bath chair was in the middle 
of it a motor suddenly whizzed round the corner, 
and, in a second, was almost on the top of us. 

Perhaps Mackenzie’s nerves were, like my 
own, wearing rather thin with our perpetual 


STEALTHY TERROR 


277 


alertness. Anyway, up went his revolver and the 
chauffeur, his face a mixture of horror and sur- 
prise, managed to pull up within a few feet of us. 
Incidents such as these threatened our disguise. 
An old lady in a Bath chair who pulled up 
motors with a revolver could scarcely hope to 
escape notoriety. We were all three rather crest- 
fallen after that, but Mackenzie was white and 
dangerously quiet. It is strange now to look 
back, and know that while we thus diligently 
fished for our men they were there all the while, 
unseen, as diligently fishing as ourselves. They, 
however, used a net. If not better sportsmen 
they were more successful, as you are presently 
to see. 

That same evening there was, in addition to 
the usual band, to be a well-known soprano who 
would sing on the bandstand at the west end of 
the Leas. The placards announcing her appear- 
ance were everywhere, and as the evening prom- 
ised to be still and warm we conceived the idea of 
making what would be our last throw among the 
big crowd which was certain to assemble. On 
that understanding we parted about five o’clock. 
They were to call for me at eight. 

It was shortly before eight when a waiter 
came into the smoking-room to inform me that 
the lady in the chair was waiting for me outside. 
I knew as I descended the steps that something 
was afoot, they were in such haste to be getting 
on. For obvious reasons we did not go in for 


STEALTHY TERROR 


278 

conversational exchanges on these promenades, 
and even in the least frequented roads it was I, 
and not Mackenzie, who gave the necessary direc- 
tions to Deverill in his capacity as chairman. 
However, I noticed that we did not take the 
nearest way to the Leas, and judged that from 
something they had learned the plan had been 
altered. I would have asked Mackenzie about it, 
only that cautious man, evidently to be quite in 
character with the part he played as an invalid 
dame out in the evening air, had the hood up. 
So I walked on by his side, patiently waiting till 
we reached some part sufficiently quiet to make 
questioning possible. 

Deverill was pulling the chair along at a pace 
that amused me, for it was quite out of keeping 
with the careful, valetudinarian aspect given to 
our equipage by the raised hood, which suggested 
much fragility in the occupant. When, however, 
we had come to a quiet road between high walls, 
bordered with trees, and with nothing in sight 
save a motor-car in the distance, I could restrain 
my curiosity no longer, seeing indeed no need to 
restrain it. Calling on Deverill to halt, I pressed 
back the hood of the chair and bent over with 
my question as to why we were going in a direc- 
tion exactly contrary to that arranged. But my 
question died on my lips as I looked at the oc- 
cupant of the chair. It was not Mackenzie. It 
was a man whose face, in spite of the shaven 
chin, I recognised — the clear-cut features, the 


STEALTHY TERROR 


279 

eyes, the carmine lips, parted in a grin, and show- 
ing the broken front teeth. 

“Dewinski!” I cried involuntarily, and as 
Henschel had cried the name that first night. 

I had a second in which to hear his reply. 

“Yais,” said Dewinski as he rose with some- 
thing in his hand that he lifted over his head. 

Then something crashed down, and conscious- 
ness left me. 

When I came to myself again the first sensa- 
tion I recall was simply a dull throbbing in my 
head. Something queer had happened to it. The 
intolerable heat lodged in my brain had, I 
thought, softened the hard osseous skull; it had 
become yielding and pliable, so that my head was 
visibly dilating and contracting in the same fash- 
ion as the heart does. Then I became aware that 
I was lying on the ground, and was feebly thank- 
ful to be on the ground, for I was convinced that 
my head had dilated, on the whole, more than it 
had contracted, and was now of such dimensions 
as to be beyond unassisted support. 

When consciousness again returned I was 
lying on my back in utter darkness. A great 
sense of sickness was on me, and I was stiff, 
numb and cold. At first the weak efforts my 
mind fitfully made to connect the present with 
the past were so painful and harassing that I 
abandoned the attempt, and lay still, staring up 
from the ground. The place in which I lay was 


280 


STEALTHY TERROR 


in impenetrable darkness and silence. I tried to 
lift a hand to see if I could touch anything, and 
discovered that both hands were strapped to my 
body. By and by I heard a cock crow, and then 
a dog barked; but both sounds were remote and 
thin as from a long distance. The next thing 
that impressed itself on my senses was a ray of 
light I discerned high over head. For a long time 
I gazed at this, until I had formulated from it the 
inferences that there was a roof there and that 
somewhere beyond it there was daylight. Then 
I must have gone to sleep. 

Some one kicked me in the ribs. 

“Get up, you English swine.” 

I was startled into complete consciousness. 
The light was streaming in from an unshuttered 
window, and showed me three men, of whom I 
knew two, Dewinski, and the fat man Roon. 
The other was a stranger to me, a young man 
in a chauffeur’s cap and linen overalls. They 
raised me from the ground, and I was propped 
up on a bench against the wall. We were in 
a big wooden shanty. In the centre of the floor 
there was a circular opening, very much like a 
well, only larger. Two very big beams in the 
roof supported a fly wheel, from which a double 
length of rope hung over the well-like opening. 
The whole place had an aspect of dilapidation, 
and an odour of decay and fustiness assailed my 
nostrils. Recent events came back to me, and 
the only thing I was uncertain about was the 


STEALTHY TERROR 281 

question as to how long I had been in their 
hands. 

They left me undisturbed for a few moments. 
I imagine they were savouring the taste of having, 
at last, run me to earth, and were finding it 
mighty sweet. The manner in which Roon 
regarded me out of his small, pig-like eyes was 
certainly baleful and malevolent enough, but his 
satisfaction was evident from the way in which he 
rubbed his fat hands. Dewinski was, of course, 
smiling, albeit not so prettily as of yore, and in 
his look there was no symptom of anything but 
benevolence. He waved his hand as he spoke. 

“It was about that little matter of the paper 
we wanted to see you,” he said. 

There was something in that speech that 
struck me as humorous; the contrast between 
the mild desire expressed by the words and the 
violence they had used in order to obtain the inter- 
view. The mincing tone, however, the manner 
in which he “mouthed” his words, and his general 
aspect, so like that of a highly polished shop- 
walker at his most “gentlemanly” moment, 
warned me that this was Dewinski in his most 
venomous mood. 

“I haven’t got it with me,” I answered, as 
blandly as it was possible for me with my aching 
head. 

He glimmered at me with narrowed eyes. 

“We know that We took the liberty 
of 


282 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Don’t mention it,” I said. 

“You haf opened the packet” — Dewinski 
progressed a step — “and will understand our 
anxiety to get it back.” 

“I did open it,” I admitted. 

“And ?” He was very keen. 

I left the question unanswered save by a shrug 
of the shoulder which I had picked up from our 
friends the French. This forced him to put a 
direct question: 

“What did you think of it, doctor?” 

“Very clever indeed,” I answered. 

“Humph! clever? What do you mean by 
clever?” 

“For a small boy, it was well drawn,” I con- 
ceded. 

“Ach, damn!” Dewinski stamped his foot. 

The veneer, never of the thickest, was wearing 
thin. Of course he knew well enough that I had 
understood the significance of the thing; all this 
was merely a method of approach to the real 
question, which was as to whether I had got any- 
one else to believe the incredible purpose wrapped 
up in that drawing. It was not in his nature to 
put that question to me directly. His methods 
were sinuous and crooked, because his nature, 
from whatever causes, was sinuous and crooked; 
in this lay the secret of his success and his 
failure. 

On the other hand, a dilemma that was very 
real confronted me and made this preliminary 


STEALTHY TERROR 


283 


sparring with words not unwelcome, since it gave 
me time to think. My life hung on the thinnest 
possible hair. If Dewinski thought that no one 
else shared the secret with me I was, of course, as 
good as dead. And equally was I lost if he 
thought that several now knew it, for though 
the plot could not be saved I could not imagine 
myself receiving their forgiveness on that account. 
But suppose he believed that only one other, and 
that an old lady in a Bath chair, knew of the 
plot! If from her, or through her, he could 
recover the drawing what matter if, after my final 
disappearance she talked of German spies and 
plots — who would pay attention to such ravings, 
from such a source? 

I recognised therefore that the old invalid 
lady in the Bath chair was my trump — indeed 
my only card. Did Dewinski know the real 
identity of the occupant of that chair? There 
was evidently something that troubled him 
greatly, as he paced now to and fro — something 
he did not know but wanted to get from me 
without allowing me to see the drift of it, and 
so prevent my giving him a reply that would 
be dictated by what was to my own advantage. 

The other two men now seated themselves on 
a packing-case near the wall, and began to smoke, 
keeping a keen interest in us all the while. 

“Perhaps,” said Dewinski stepping before me, 
“you have shown the cleverness of the little draw- 
ing to many peoples?” 


284 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“To about half a dozen,” I answered. 

“And ?” 

How much depended on my answer! I took 
the plunge and trusted in my reasoning. 

“They were all fools,” I answered frankly. 
“Only one of them saw how clever it was.” 

“And who was this one?” 

“It was, of course, a woman,” I answered. 

“Pah! a woman ” his tone was con- 

temptuous. “Do you think, doctor, I’d believe 
such a bull-and-cock story?” 

My reply to this was again that useful shrug 
of the shoulder which says anything, and commits 
one to nothing. He resumed his sentry-like walk, 
and I began to suspect that in his last question 
we had approached the heart of things, the 
identity of the occupant of the Bath chair. My 
respect for Mackenzie increased. For three 
days these men had watched our little procession 
in the streets, and had lighted on no flaw in its 
bona fides! It was a stroke of pure luck, of 
course, that they had not seen the incident with 
the chauffeur in the Castle Hill Avenue. Remem- 
bering that incident now, I understood Macken- 
zie’s pallor afterwards. Still it was not all good 
luck, and how he and Deverill contrived to cover 
their traces in coming and going I could not 
imagine. What were he and Deverill doing now? 
It was pretty certain they were busy; but could 
they be in time to help me? What had they to 
work on? An overturned and abandoned Bath 


STEALTHY TERROR 285 

chair ! There were others besides themselves who 
knew how to obliterate their traces. 

“Who was this woman?” It was Dewinski 
again. 

“My mother,” I answered with promptitude. 

“And,” he continued, “this other woman in 
the Bath chair you haf been ” 

“That was not another woman,” I inter- 
rupted. “It was my mother.” 

“Ah!” His eyes were on me keenly. Dis- 
tinctly, he was on the target now. 

“Yes,” I explained. “You see after that ex- 
citing time you gave us up in Scotland her nerves 
went wrong, and she was ordered change of scene 
and rest. We hardly expected to run across you 
again, down here.” 

He kept staring at me all the time. I wished 
he wouldn’t. He kept it up even after I had 
finished speaking, which was the worst of all. 

“I’d like for to see your mother,” he said 
finally, “to — to express my sorrows.” 

“Very nice of you,” I replied. “I know she’d 
like to meet you.” 

Something in this pleased the fellow. He 
shook his head in a deprecating negative. 

“Ach, no, doctor!” He thought I had said 
too much perhaps. 

“On such a mission — yes,” I assured him. 

And his face fell again. 

“Lieber Gott! I will have to zee her, ze old 
lady.” 


286 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“Go by all means,” I encouraged him. 

“Ach, no ! But she will perhaps come here. And 
perhaps bring with her ze leetle paper I lost?” 

Was it only the paper after all? Had he 
then no suspicion of Mackenzie? This was better 
than I could hope for. 

“Too far,” I said. 

He was wary. 

“How do you know how far it is?” 

“She is practically an invalid, you know.” 

“But the Bath chair, doctor, would make it 
easy.” 

“She won’t come.” 

“What! Not to save you from — from an 
accident? Ach! ze cruel, heartless one. It is a 
strange mother you have, then!” 

This was maddening. Confound the fellow; 
how much did he know? 

“I couldn’t ask her,” I said. “This is merely 
an inconvenience to me.” 

“Inconvenience!” he cried grimly, his whole 
manner changing. He turned to the young man 
on the packing case. “Carl, show to the good 
doctor ze inconvenience of ze place!” 

The man addressed stared blankly for a 
moment, and, then comprehending the gesture 
Dewinski made to him, picked up a brick from 
the coping of the well and, as the theatrical Jew 
lifted a hand, he dropped it over. After a long 
interval a far-away splash came back. Dewinski 
took out his watch. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


287 


“You are that brick,” he said. “You go 
‘plomp’ down ze mine shaft if by evening at 
seven you haf not sent a leetle note of invitation 
to bring your mother — and ze leetle paper.” 

He and Roon began to prepare for departure. 
It did not escape me that they looked carefully 
from the window before leaving. Dewinski 
turned at the door : 

“Think not you can escape from Carl,” he 
warned me. 

“We have met before,” said Carl, bowing to 
me. 

I looked at him vaguely. 

“In Scotland,” he explained. 

Then I remembered. He was the fellow who 
had so nearly potted me at the cairn, by the 
Knock hill. 

“To be sure,” I said, “at the shooting season, 
wasn’t it?” A sufficiently foolish remark; but 
I was not so foolish as to recall to remembrance 
the fact that I had once before escaped from Carl. 


CHAPTER XIII 

T HIS was the letter which, later in the day, 
by reiterated threats, Dewinski induced 
me to write : 

“Dear Mother, 

“My absence must have alarmed you 
greatly. The fact is I met with a little accident 
which seems likely to confine me to this shanty 
for eternity. As the three kind friends who 
helped me with my accident are now even more 
anxious about you than about me they have per- 
suaded me to write and assure you of a warm 
reception, should you come up here to satisfy 
yourself as to my present condition and comfort 
in this shanty of mine. It will, I think, be an 
easy journey if you use the Bath chair. Some 
one will call at ten o’clock to-morrow to show you 
the way. 

‘‘Your affectionate son, 

“Hugh. 

“P.S. — Don’t forget the drawing I left with 
>> 


288 


STEALTHY TERROR 


289 


Dewinski was delighted with this letter, and I 
was not displeased with it myself. It is true at 
first he seemed dubious over the word “shanty,’* 
his knowledge of English not being extensive 
enough for him to know that, as I explained to 
him, it was simply a homely word for “a little 
cottage.” And again, when he objected that this 
little cottage did not belong to me, and that there- 
fore the word “mine” was not suitable, I had 
to explain that this was an idiomatic expression 
commonly used where hospitality has reached the 
pitch of making a guest feel quite “at home,” 
so to speak. There seemed to be nothing else 
in the note that caught his attention, and he was 
delighted with it,' explaining the idiom to the 
other two, who could not read English. The 
word “persuaded” tickled them greatly. My 
own satisfaction had no outward manifestation. 

At once the young man departed to deliver 
the letter. It was then about seven o’clock. In 
imagination I followed the course of events that 
would ensue when my young German friend 
handed in that letter at the hotel. Suppose he 
had been instructed by Dewinski to deliver it per- 
sonally to Mrs. Abercromby, and await a reply! 
Then, indeed I was lost! But I had calculated 
otherwise. “Mrs. Abercromby” was the one 
person who knew and credited my story. 
It was unlikely that in such circumstances so 
clever a man as Dewinski would not see the 
danger of sending an interviewer who spoke 


290 


STEALTHY TERROR 


English with a German accent. No; I was sure 
his directions were to drop the letter in the letter 
box and clear out before any questions could be 
asked. 

What would follow then? The letter would 
be removed with others, and taken to the hotel 
office for delivery. But there was no Mrs. Aber- 
cromby at the hotel. Would the girl clerk treat 
it as an advance letter for an intending guest? 
That would be bad! But if she took it for a 
note to me — and I had done my best to confuse 
the gender of the prefix to “Abercromby” on the 
envelope — it would be stuck in the rack, per- 
haps in the hall, where Mackenzie would see a 
note addressed to me in my own handwriting. 
It would be strange if he did not get possession 
of it. In any event it was almost certain that 
in my absence he would have made repeated in- 
quiries at the office, and almost certainly on the 
arrival of such a note, by personal messenger, 
would be consulted about it. 

What would Mackenzie make of it? He 
would at once know I had been taken by Dewin- 
ski and two others, and was confined in a shanty 
that covered a mine shaft sunk to find coal — 
there were several of these in Kent, and some 
were in German hands — that this mine shaft was 
“up” somewhere, and within easy reach of 
Folkestone. Such details he was told in my 
letter. But would he assume from the fact that 
the letter was addressed to a lady who used a 


STEALTHY TERROR 


291 


Bath chair that our disguise had not been pene- 
trated? Or would he, as I desired him to, 
understand from “the warm reception” and the 
“anxious about you,” that I had some dubiety as 
to whether or not they knew, but was inclined to 
believe that the Bath chair made the safest 
method of approach? 

For the life of me I could not gather whether 
Dewinski knew or not. That evening he remained 
in the place till late, and at times it seemed to me 
that his amusement and air of satisfaction be- 
tokened more than the hope of capturing an old 
lady on the morrow. To be sure, he imagined 
he was deceiving me, but even so it appeared to 
me that only a double bluff would warrant so 
much complacency. Was he, then, merely pre- 
tending to believe in my mother, and all the 
while knowing whom to expect next day? He 
spared me little in the way of jeers while waiting 
the return of the messenger; but carefully as I 
listened, and provocative as I tried to be, he let 
nothing slip that could give me an inkling. 

When ultimately the man returned they tied 
me up again and the other two departed for the 
night, leaving the good Carl to keep guard. 
That fellow, once I was secure, did not trouble 
much about me, but lay down on a bench on the 
far side and was soon asleep. Very gladly would 
I have slept myself had my thoughts allowed me. 
I have read of condemned prisoners who on the 
night before their execution slept soundly and 


STEALTHY TERROR 


292 

ate hearty breakfasts on the morrow, but although 
I was under no illusion as to what, short of some 
miracle from Mackenzie, would happen to me on 
the morrow, sleep did not visit my eyes. Perhaps 
it was the faint hope of rescue that kept me 
wakeful — that, and also the fear that I might 
have been made the instrument for getting 
Mackenzie and Deverill to run their heads into 
a noose prepared for them. I no longer cherished 
any hope of escaping from the good Carl a second 
time. He was sound enough asleep, but I was 
securely trussed up, and though he slept, it was 
with a pistol beside his hand. 

And so the slow hours dragged on. 

I must have been in that semi-conscious state 
which lies on the borders of sleep when there 
came to my ears a sound that, at first, I thought 
was but my memory working in my dreams. It 
was the sound of some one whistling the dance 
music from Henry VIII. Of course I was startled. 
Once or twice in the evening I had heard whist- 
ling from passers-by — farm hands going home 
from their work possibly. But that air! It was 
an extraordinary coincidence. How the tables 
had been turned since I had whistled it that 
morning in St. Andrews when Margarita 
Thompson had come down and taken me in! 
And in the midst of these thoughts the whistling 
recommenced. This time the air ceased preg- 
nantly just at the point at which I used to go 
astray in it, and then it was resumed, the phrase 


STEALTHY TERROR 


29S 


first rendered correctly and then taken up again 
according to my variation. I could not believe 
my ears! There was but one person in the 
world who was capable of sending just that mes- 
sage to me, and she was far away. Was she? 
But how could she come to be there? 

I tried to take up the air myself, but my lips 
were so parched and dry that at first I could 
scarce hear myself. Then Carl started out of 
sleep at the sound; as by instinct his hand went 
to his weapon, and sitting up he covered me with 
it, while he listened. 

“What is that?” he cried angrily, for he was 
afraid. 

The thin pale light of early dawn was coming 
in from the unshuttered window. I was stiff and 
chill, but somehow from the time I heard that 
whistling I no longer took a gloomy view as to 
my prospects. So I told him it was no doubt 
some man on his way to work. But he did not 
again go to sleep. 

Later in the morning some food was brought 
me, and the other two came and talked to the 
young man while I ate. I took comfort from 
the fact that there appeared to be only three of 
them. Had Dewinski planned some treachery 
on Mackenzie there would, I thought, have been 
a greater show of force. But for the purpose 
of disposing of a tied-up prisoner, an old lady 
and a decrepit chairman the three were quite 
adequate. Roon was meanwhile busy by himself. 


294 


STEALTHY TERROR 


At first I did not give any heed to the silent fat 
man, being more concerned in attempting to 
overhear what Dewinski was saying to the young 
man; but when my eyes did go in Roon’s direc- 
tion what I saw left me no doubt as to their 
immediate intentions : he was fastening heavy 
weights of iron to lengths of rope. There were 
three lengths of rope. As he laid them on the 
packing case that stood beside the well it was not 
difficult to tell for whom and for what purpose 
they were destined. The cold-blooded orderliness 
with which these preparations were made began 
to shake my nerve again on the question as to 
whether they knew who their impending visitor 
really was; for I could hardly bring myself to 
believe that they would be ready to take thus 
almost wantonly, as it seemed to me, the lives 
of an invalid lady and an inoffensive man who 
wheeled her chair. 

By and by the good Carl departed, obviously 
to act as guide, as had been arranged in the letter; 
and I was glad of it, for the increasing uncer- 
tainty as to whether Dewinski was to take 
Mackenzie, or Mackenzie take Dewinski, was 
more than I could much longer endure. 

As the morning wore on Dewinski showed 
symptoms of uneasiness. He was continually 
going out and coming in. Roon was more 
phlegmatic, and went on with whatever he was 
doing with complete stolidity. Neither of them 


STEALTHY TERROR 


295 


gave the least heed to me. I suspect they re- 
garded me as now negligible. Ultimately 
Dewinski, after looking at his watch, said some- 
thing to the fat man which I could not overhear, 
and both looked at me. Roon had one of the 
weighted ropes in his hand at the moment, and 
it struck me suddenly that my last hour had 
come. It is curious that I had not thought this 
might come at any time; my thoughts had been 
running so much on the approaching conflict with 
Mackenzie, and also, as I have said, that whis- 
tling in the early dawn from Margarita — if it 
had been she — had, in a vague way so encouraged 
me that this sudden opening of the abyss at my 
feet made a truly horrible moment. It was not 
so much, I think, against death that I revolted 
then — for long now I had been compelled to en- 
visage the probability of getting knocked out in 
this affair that there was no shock in the thought 
of it to me — what I revolted at was death at 
this precise moment, when the curtain was just 
rising on the last scene of the last act. It struck 
me as cruel, wanton and grotesquely unfair 
that my life should be taken then, and that then 
I should go suddenly down to extinction, like a 
lighted match dropped into a bucket of 
water. 

But even as they got ready Dewinski, with 
a snigger, drew Roon back and whispered some- 
thing to him. Roon considered what was said 
and then nodded approval. Together they lifted 


2 96 STEALTHY TERROR 

me over to a chair by the window and propped 
me in it. 

“There!” said Dewinski. “Ze goot leedle 
boy vill vatch vor ze approach of Mamma !” 

I had perceived that his English was not so 
good in his exalted moods. Although certainly 
not prompted by kindness the respite was grate- 
ful to me. Assuredly I did not build any hope 
of rescue from it. Dewinski was too confident 
and self-assured for that. It looked as if he had 
got “the drop” on us, and knew it. 

The country I saw from that window was in 
extent very circumscribed, for the shanty stood 
in a cup-shaped depression that did not allow me 
to see above the undulations of the fields in front. 
A road that evidently led over the Downs came 
into sight about a mile away, and descended on 
our side, like a white ribbon on green fields, and 
passed on a few hundred yards from the shanty. 
The shanty itself stood a little way up the north 
side of the depression, and a rough and grass- 
grown cart track left the road at the bottom of 
the hollow in its direction. There were no 
houses in sight. If not remote it appeared to be 
a lonely country-side, for while I watched from 
the window I saw no traffic on the road, nor 
indeed heard any sound, save the far-away pene- 
trating cry of a sheep, from the high downs. 
Dewinski and Roon seated themselves on the 
turf slope in front of the door and sat watching 
that road. It was a fine still day. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


297 


I began to hope, as time passed, that they 
were not coming. The silent country-side took 
on an ominous aspect. Up there it seemed to 
me that Dewinski would have men set to trap 
them, once they had descended from the summit, 
men who would be lurking in little hollows in 
the bare hill-side, and who would prevent either 
escape or rescue. I knew that they must come 
unaccompanied, otherwise Carl would never lead 
them to the place. It was, I thought, equally 
certain that Dewinski would post some of his 
gang to see that they were also unfollowed. So 
it appeared to me that the expedition could never 
be anything more than a forlorn hope. 

Then, even as I watched, I saw Dewinski 
level a pair of binoculars on the hills, and, a little 
after, I saw a black and moving dot, high up on 
the chalky road. By and by the figures became 
distinct, and I saw the thing, in which I knew 
Mackenzie sat, like a perambulator slowly moving 
down, guided by the careful Deverill. Were they 
not both children ! There was something at once 
ridiculous, pathetic and heroic in the sight. They 
were simply walking straight, if not unconsciously, 
into the lions’ den. I longed to cry out a warn- 
ing, and struggled vainly to loosen the cords that 
bound me immovably at that window, now un- 
derstanding the refinement of cruelty that had 
prompted my respite and placed me there. But 
I was quite helpless, and must needs gaze in a 
horrid fascination at the approaching tragedy. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


298 

When, however, they had come up to the gap 
in the hedge through which the cart track to the 
shanty passed I saw that it was the good Carl who 
was pulling the chair, the good Carl, who was 
thus placed directly between Dewinski and Roon 
and Mackenzie and Deverill, who was behind the 
chair, pushing. That struck me as not so bad in 
the way of a manoeuvre. Up to a point it elimi- 
nated the good Carl, and ensured immunity from 
frontal attack. The numbers might be held to 
be equal so long as that position was maintained, 
while Mackenzie shielded by Carl, and Deverill 
behind both, had, I saw, an immensely stronger 
strategic defence. 

Nothing could well seem more natural than 
that little procession as it moved towards the 
shanty across the turf, yet something in it — no 
one now will ever know what it was — raised sus- 
picion in Dewinski, that is supposing he did not 
know all the time, which is uncertain. I saw his 
hand come behind and whip out the gun he was 
never without. But he kept it there, never show- 
ing it while he seemed to have his eyes fixed on 
the party that stole slowly nearer. Suddenly he 
shouted out something to Carl in a loud voice. 
The chair was instantly wheeled round to the 
left, thus Mackenzie, seated in it with the hood 
up, was made helpless, and Deverill was exposed. 

I heard Dewinski’s shot, and saw the sailor go 
down. At the same moment Carl collapsed 
quietly on the grass, like a tired man, exhausted 


STEALTHY TERROR 


299 

by his labours. Roon had now joined in the 
fusillade, and I saw splinters fly off the back of 
the silly Bath chair, and imagined Mackenzie 
must have been shot in the first volley. It was 
amazing to see with what simplicity the tables 
had been turned. Meanwhile there had not been 
so much as a single shot from the other side! 
Deverill lay face down where he had pitched 
forward on the grass, with the German youth in 
front lying on his back, the silent chair standing 
in the open, white wood showing where it had 
been splintered by the bullets. 

No defeat could be more decisive. Dewinski 
and Roon, however, were taking no chances. 
Both stood watching, ready to begin again at the 
slightest movement from below. But none 
came. I am sure they had not desired the thing 
to be done just like this; lonely as the country 
was they would have preferred less shooting. 

Then even as I watched I heard, from some 
direction I couldn’t see, the crack crack of a gun, 
and within a second of each other Dewinski went 
over, and Roon pitched awkwardly to the earth. 
Dewinski was up again, almost instantly, on his 
knees, gazing around, seeking to discover whence 
the attack had come. Crack went the sound 
again, and the pistol spun from his grasp. Look- 
ing wildly round about him the Jew caught sight 
of me at my window, and, scrambling to his feet, 
ran clumsily but swiftly to the door. Perhaps 
he thought that somehow I had succeeded in 


300 


STEALTHY TERROR 


freeing myself, and had thus taken them in the 
rear in the very moment of their triumph, or 
more likely he was simply moved by the instinct 
of a wild beast, which when wounded attacks the 
nearest living thing in sight. 

Before he reached the door the hidden gun 
spat at him again, and he staggered momentarily, 
but recovered and pushed on like a man fighting 
his way against a gale of wind. I knew I was 
helpless in his hands. He tore at me, and 
though his right hand was all shattered and 
bloody he had the strength of madness, and 
dragged me over towards the well of the mine 
shaft in the centre of the floor. As soon as I 
read his intentions I put up such resistance as 
was possible, which was very little, and I recog- 
nised that it must soon be over. Dewinski had 
only my weight to contend with. He put forth 
all his strength to hoist me up on the parapet that 
encircled the well, tugging at me with both hands, 
head thrown back, an insanity of hate in his 
straining eyes. Then, even while I saw his face 
so, some one stepped up unheard, a fist shot 
over my head that took Dewinski on the up- 
turned chin. I saw both his hands go up and 
with a cry he went over into the dark yawning 
depths. 

When I came to my senses Mackenzie’s grim 
face was bending over me. He had already cut 
me free, but I was yet too stiff and cramped with 
the long-continued pressure to move. 


STEALTHY TERROR 


3 01 

“You weren’t killed then, in the Bath chair, 
after all?” I said. 

He shook his head as he continued rubbing 
at my numb arms. 

“I wasn’t in the Bath chair,” he said. 

“What!” I said, startled and amazed into al- 
most physical activity. “Then who was? Who 
was in the chair?” 

“I don’t know who was in it,” said he. “Do 
you think you can stand now?” 

Struggling to my feet I began to make for the 
door, leaning on him, and heedless of the torture 
caused by the renewal of the circulating blood. 

“Mackenzie,” I cried, “there was some one in 
that chair. I swear it. I saw him.” 

He tried to steady me. 

“Abercromby, old fellow, don’t excite yourself. 
Sit down here for a minute. Come now! Who- 
ever was in that chair is beyond help now.” 

“Who was it?” I cried catching at him. “Tell 
me !” 

“I swear to you,” he assured me, “I haven’t 
the least notion.” 

But I was not to be turned aside. He had 
perforce to assist me, and together we went down 
the slope, and over the grass, to the chair that 
stood with its back towards us. 

“Did you know her?” Mackenzie whispered 
to me when we had gazed at the occupant a mo- 
ment. 

I must have kept on looking at her without 


302 


STEALTHY TERROR 


reply. Know her? Who knows any one? Who 
knows oneself, if it comes to that. I could 
hardly have been said to know her, in any real 
and deep sense, till that moment. Mackenzie re- 
peated his question. 

“I didn’t, till this moment. But I know her 
now.” 

Afterwards he told me that he thought my 
mind had become unhinged. 

“Her name was Margarita Thompson,” I 
went on as if he had asked it. 

We lifted her free and laid her on the grass. 
There was blood on her dress; but she was not 
dead. A bullet had cut a furrow on her right 
arm, and splinters of wood had wounded her in 
the neck, but she soon came round when we had 
carried her into the house, and bathed her wounds. 
Deverill’s was a much more serious case, although, 
as it had chanced, he had been much less fired at. 
Indeed, he had received but the one shot from 
Dewinski, but that had caught him, as he was 
wheeling round, in the left side, fracturing a rib 
and then ploughing a circular course till it 
emerged, as I found, just before reaching the 
spinal cord. It was a narrow thing, but his re- 
covery, though tedious, was complete. 

When we had done what we could in the way 
of binding up the sailor’s wounds, Mackenzie 
went off for the car in which he had come, and 
which he had left at the turn of the road, and I 
went back to Margarita. I bothered her with 


STEALTHY TERROR 


303 


no questions then. I sat by her and waited. 
When I heard the car coming I took her in my 
arms and carried her to it. Deverill we lifted 
in also, and then we made our way along the 
Folkestone road as quickly as was possible in the 
circumstances. 

I confess that the examination we had given 
to Roon and the good Carl had been perfunctory. 
Not much sympathy had we to spare for them. 
Still, when we reached Folkestone we gave notice 
to the authorities and a car with the police and a 
doctor was despatched to bring them in. Later 
in the day an inspector called at the hotel and 
informed us that, on reaching the place, they had 
found traces of a struggle, but none of the men. 
Whether they were less badly injured than we 
supposed, or whether they may, in the short in- 
terval, have been disposed of by one or more of 
the confederates who may have been posted on 
the downs, I cannot guess ; but nothing more was 
seen of them. 

It was the second night after this adventure 
that Margarita, now recovered, explained in a 
few words the mystery of her appearance. She 
was very shy about it before Mackenzie. 

“If,” she said, turning to him, “you have heard 
anything of Mr. Abercromby’s adventures you 
will know that he needs some one by him to take 
care of him.” Then flushing slightly for some 
reason I did not divine, she hurried oni “So 


304 


STEALTHY terror 


when I heard from him that he was again mixed 
up with these people, and had barely escaped 
from them in London, I — well, I had to come 
down to look after him. When I went to the 
hotel in Dover, and was told he had gone away 
in a car with two gentlemen, I feared the worst. 
They gave me the names of the two at the hotel, 
and the next day I came here.” 

“Why here?” Mackenzie asked. 

“Because of the drawing,” she answered. “I 
knew he was exploring in this direction. It was 
not, however, till the very day, that is last 
Wednesday, on which Mr. Abercromby was car- 
ried off that I succeeded in discovering you at 
this hotel.” 

Mackenzie smiled. 

“So much for our publicity campaign, Aber- 
cromby,” he said. *‘Why, Miss Thompson, for 
those three days we paraded through all the 
streets of Folkestone.” 

“Things happen like that,” said Margarita, 
nodding. “I daresay I missed you often by a 
few yards. In the end,” she resumed, “I took 
a taxi and went round the hotels asking for a 
Mr. Abercromby. It was just a chance that he 
would give that name. I had very little hope; 
but finally I came here. They told me you had 
just gone out with an old lady who used a Bath 
chair, and while I stood on the steps an old 
lady in a Bath chair came to the door and asked 
for him. I did not know what to make of it.” 


STEALTHY TERROR 


305 


“Neither did we!” Mackenzie interjected. “It 
took us half an hour before we saw what had 
happened.” 

“After you had gone,” Margarita continued, 
“I found out that there were two gentlemen stay- 
ing in the hotel with whom he was acquainted. 
So I sent for my things and took a room to 
watch.” 

“Did you discover the connection between the 
two friends and the Bath chair lady?” Macken- 
zie here asked, which made me aware that he 
did not rate Margarita’s perspicacity at a low 
level. 

She shook her head, smiling. 

“No,” she said, “I had to be told that. It 
was easy to see that night that you were greatly 
disturbed at the disappearance of Mr. Aber- 
cromby,” she went on. “At first I imagined that 
he had run away from you.” 

“What made you change your view?” Mac- 
kenzie asked. 

“Well,” she answered, “I think it was the qual- 
ity of the concern you showed, if you know what 
I mean: it didn’t seem the kind of anxiety one 
would expect from them; and Lieutenant Dev- 
erill looked too nice, and young too.” 

“Thank you,” Mackenzie laughed. 

Margarita laughed also. 

“You never thought any one was watching 
you?” she asked. 

“Oh yes, I did. Even in the midst of my — 


3 o 6 STEALTHY TERROR 

perplexity, I observed the young lady who 
watched us over the top of her paper in the 
lounge.” 

“That was clever of you. What did you 
think? Were you afraid?” 

“No,” said Mackenzie. “I just thought you 
a young lady who was attracted by the — well, 
nice and young Deverill.” 

“That wasn’t clever of you,” Margarita said 
with affected coldness. 

“Well,” I said to them, “now that — will the 
story have a chance of progressing?” 

“Captain Mackenzie disappeared the next 
day,” she resumed. “And after he had gone that 
poor boy seemed unable to rest. He wandered 
about getting himself into a fever of restless- 
ness.” 

“I went rummaging about,” explained Mac- 
kenzie. “Deverill of course was upset. You 
see we had undertaken to protect Mr. Aber- 
cromby.” 

“Well,” Margarita went on, “after eight last 
night the clerk at the hotel, who knew I was a 
friend of Mr. Abercromby’s, came to me with a 
letter for him. The strange thing was that it was 
in his own handwriting. I told the girl this, and 
as the hotel people themselves were getting 
anxious over his disappearance I opened the note 
and read it. Then it seemed to me I understood 
the mystery of the old lady in the chair. But 
they could not tell me where she lived, and it 


STEALTHY TERROR 


307 


was puzzling that it should be addressed to an 
hotel at which you must have known she had not 
put up. At first I thought your mother must 
be in some nursing home, and that perhaps as 
the result of your accident you had made the 
mistake. So I got on the telephone, but in the 
end could get no trace. I was feeling beaten 
when on taking a seat in the lounge, I saw Lieu- 
tenant Deverill sitting alone, his head on his 
chest, and only looking up, but always looking up, 
when any one entered. 

“I went over to him and said: ‘Are you wait- 
ing for Mr. Abercromby’s return?’ He almost 
jumped out of his chair. I showed him the let- 
ter, and once he had made me acquainted with 
your expeditions through the streets in a Bath 
chair I understood the real meaning of the letter. 
As there wasn’t much time to spare we routed 
out an official person, who was very much aston- 
ished when we questioned him as to the locality 
of any mine-shafts within a ten-mile radius. We 
got the information, however, as to the position 
of the only three that answered to what we sought. 
It was early morning when our car found the real 
one; but we could do nothing then, for when we 
stopped three or four men sauntered up, from no- 
where, and passed, staring at us, Mr. Deverill 
pretended something had gone wrong with the 
engine, and I sat in the car and whistled.” She 
looked at me. 

“I heard and understood,” I answered. 


308 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“We went back to the hotel, expecting to 
find Captain Mackenzie, and knowing, anyhow, 
that you were safe till the man called in the fore- 
noon. When, however, the hours passed, and 
Captain Mackenzie did not appear, we did not 
know what to do. The obvious idea of calling 
in the assistance of the police did come to me, but 
it was clear that no police would ever have been 
allowed to get near enough in time to save his life. 
Besides there was no time now to get help from 
that quarter. That is how we came to attempt 
the rescue by ourselves. We knew from Mr. 
Abercromby’s letter that there were only three 
in the house. We had of course seen more than 
that number ourselves, and it was chiefly for that 
reason we did not call in the police, for it seemed 
certain that all approaches would be watched for 
the police, or any others. Mr. Deverill thought 
he might with luck count on getting both of the 
men in the house. He made sure of the guide 
once we reached the top of the hill when he set 
him to pull, telling him that he would shoot the 
moment a hand was lifted from the handle of the 
chair. You know the rest. Captain Mackenzie, 
when he received the note we left with the hotel 
porter on the chance of his return, followed in 
his car in time to save us all.” 

Mackenzie made no reply to this. Not, it 
appeared presently, that he accepted it as a true 
statement of the case. 

“I was following,” he said, “one or two 


STEALTHY TERROR 


309 


trails. There was a jeweller in Hythe upon 
whom I put pressure, in the middle of the cfight. 
I don’t believe he knew where Abercromby was, 
but he was afraid I wouldn’t believe him if he 
told the truth. So the infernal scoundrel sent 
me on a wild-goose chase. I expect, however, that 
there is already an opening for a jeweller in 
Hythe. I heard the shooting as I tore down the 
hill, and they were all too busy to see me get round 
by the corner of the house.” 

He fingered in his breast pocket and drew out 
the little Eitel drawing. As he smoothed it out 
on the table before him Margarita showed her 
feminine curiosity. 

“Have you read all its secrets?” she asked. 

“I wonder!” said Mackenzie. 

“The 27 above the dead lion bothered me,” I 
remarked. 

“That! It probably indicates the total num- 
ber of agents they established here. The drawing 
is twofold. The lower half is concerned with the 
organisation for immediate action. The upper 
half shows the arranged landing places, the terri- 
tory to be occupied at once, and the means of 
transport. The first was between Shakespeare 
Cliff and Hythe, the second was a line between 
Hythe and Whitstable, for that rock that seems 
to threaten the church with destruction, Miss 
Thompson, is really an oyster.” 

“And the church?” she asked. 

“That,” said Mackenzie, “is a German idea 


3 io STEALTHY TERROR 

of Canterbury. They would have put it in the 
firing line.” 

“And the tree?” 

“The tree is an ash, as you will observe. Ash- 
ford would be extremely useful for a variety of 
reasons. The strong part of it is that they would 
have had an excellent railway system behind their 
lines.” 

“Come,” I interjected here, “an excellent rail- 
way system — the South Eastern!” 

“On that day,” Mackenzie answered, “it would 
be in other hands, and would be run in other in- 
terests.” 

“What are the small numbers in the middle?” 
Margarita asked. 

“They are the figures that relate to currents, 
depths and tides between here and Calais. Dev- 
erill knows about them.” He drank off his cof- 
fee hurriedly. “That reminds me,” he contin- 
ued, rising, “I must go round to the hospital to 
see how he is settling down for the night.” 

There was something queerly funny in his sug- 
gestion that he needed any reminder as to seeing 
after his friend Deverill, for he must have been 
to the hospital dozens of times since that building 
became the centre of his interest. 

When he was gone Margarita and I fell 
silent. I was thinking that here was an end to 
my adventures. When at last I came back to 
myself she was standing by the window, look- 
ing out over the sea. Her handkerchief was in 


STEALTHY TERROR 


3ix 

her right hand. I came up behind her, and she 
did not turn round at my approach. 

“Miss Thompson,” I said, “that big adven- 
ture of ours is over and done with now, and I’ve 
a very queer feeling of sadness that it is, which is 
a very irrational emotion; but somehow it seems 
to me that life, after all this, will be a very flat 
and unromantic business.” 

I waited awhile for her to comment on this; 
but she said nothing. 

“Of course,” I went on, “if — if you could think 
of another adventure,” I wanted to say “with 
me”; but I was afraid. Then I saw the use to 
which she had been putting her wisp of a hand- 
kerchief. “What! You are crying!” 

“Oh, but it is terrible — that paper, to have so 
much blood shed for it, a thing like that!” 

“Don’t think of it,” I cried. “There’s an 
end to that,” little guessing, then, what blood 
would yet have to flow on the Menin road to 
Ypres before the push to Calais was finally 
stopped. 

We stood a long while silent. My thought 
was that she was a strange girl to weep over the 
fate of those who had but sought the destruction 
of our country. Unless indeed it was over that 
boy Deverill! Yes, of course that was it! They 
had been thrown together in a most exciting mo- 
ment, and were partners in a dangerous expedi- 
tion. What other result than this could anyone 
expect ! 


312 


STEALTHY TERROR 


“I’ll be home again,” she said, at length, “the 
day after to-morrow. It will be nice to be at home 
again.” 

“Very nice,” I agreed, “very!” 

“Unless ” she began. 

“Unless?” I repeated. 

“You were saying something about another ad- 
venture ” she reminded me. “If it is dan- 
gerous like the last ” 

“It is dangerous; but it is not like the last,” I 
answered, looking her full in the eyes. 

“Well, then, of course, you will need me,” 
said Miss Thompson; and she hid her eyes from 
me on my breast. 












































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